Page 31 of Spinning Out Of Control

It’s late, nearly ten o’clock already, but the time change has me all kinds of fucked up. I’m too restless to sleep. I’m hungry, but nothing on the room service menu is appealing to me at the moment.

Fuck it, this is New York. The city never sleeps. Why should I?

I slip into a pair of slacks and a long-sleeved navy sweater. I only brought business casual and gym attire on the trip, and it’s too cold outside to brave the streets in just shorts. I decide to walk without a plan, letting the sights and smells of the city call to me and tell me what it is I want to eat for dinner.

Two short blocks in the chilly Manhattan night later, I stumble upon a small, cozy-looking Argentinian cafe. The smell of chorizo and empanadas fills my nostrils, and my stomach growls in response. Perfect, I’ll have a warm meal and a cocktail and then go back to my room and try not to think about Kira or the way her leggings hugged her heart-shaped ass all day.

Except when I push through the doorway, who else is sitting alone at a table in the corner, chin in her palm and a retro paperback romance novel covering half of her face, but Kira herself?

I tuck my hands in my pockets, lingering by the host stand for a moment while I watch her. She’s engrossed in the book, eyes flitting over the pages while she ignores the dirty martini on the table in front of her.

I could walk away. I could turn around and find somewhere else to eat, but when the hostess approaches and asks me if I’m dining alone tonight, I shake my head.

“Actually, I’m meeting someone. She’s right over there, thank you.”

I glide across the dining room, my sights set on the woman I haven’t been able to get out of my head for nearly a year. She’s going to be so mad when she sees me, and that thought has my cock stirring behind my zipper.

“Of all the empanada joints in all the world…”

Kira doesn’t bother looking up from her novel as she answers.

“There are seventeen thousand restaurants in Manhattan, Warren. Go find somewhere else to lurk.”

“Such a pest. You’re not going to ask me to join you?”

“No.”

“That’s too bad. I told the hostess I was meeting someone here, and what a tragedy it would be to goback up there and reveal that I’d been stood up. She seemed like a lovely woman, though. Kind eyes. I’m sure she’d take care of me. Give me the best seat in the house, maybe a free drink. I wonder what time she gets off, if she’d have a seat and keep me company. She’d do well to mend my broken heart.”

It’s bold, it’s obnoxious, but it works. Preying on the jealousy I detected earlier in the hotel lobby scores me one of Kira’s sexy as hell scowls. I can practically see the green-eyed monster enter her body as she glares at me.

“Fine. Sit down, but only because I ordered enough food to feed a small nation and I’ll never eat it all by myself.”

“What if I don’t want what you ordered?” I ask, poking the bear. She sighs, and my cock twitches.

“Trust me, Warren–”

“Ren. Call me Ren, please.”

Come on, baby. Say it. Play with me. Remember how we felt that night. Remember how good we were together.

“Trust me, Warren. You’re going to like what I ordered.”

A server pops by, and before I can ask him for his best whiskey, Kira points to her martini glass and says something to the man in Spanish. Then she buries her head back into her book, intent on ignoring me.

Kira is right about the drink. It’s been years since I’ve had a martini, but the herbal flavors of the gin mix perfectly with the brine of the olives. I sip it slowlywhile I watch her read, studying her facial features as she turns page after page. Whatever the author had to say about the shirtless man holding the woman wearing a pink dress that barely contains her heaving bosoms on the front has her undivided attention.

I type the title into the search bar on my phone and find the book on a secondhand site. I add it as well as a handful of others by the same author to my cart and place an order. I’ve never been one for romance novels before, but it can’t hurt to have one more thing in common with Kira.

“I like your tattoo. Is it new?” I ask, gesturing to the little ears and whiskers on her wrist. I ask the question even though I already know the answer. I’ve memorized every inch of her skin that I’ve been lucky enough to get my eyes on, and the tattoo only appeared a few weeks ago.

“Yes,” she says, not looking up from her book. “Me and the girls all got matching tattoos right before Am and Rach’s wedding.”

“Right, the newlyweds. How rude of Amir not to invite me. We’ve only been friends for a decade,” I grumble.

Of course, I heard all about the intimate courthouse nuptials on a recent golf outing with Amir and James. I wasn’t really offended. I know the whole thing was quiet and last minute. I still sent the couple a lovely gift along with a bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild.

“I enjoyed not seeing you there,” she quips with abratty little smirk on her face. I scowl, but there’s no malice behind it. In fact, the scowl is helping to hide the sudden rush of lightheadedness caused by every ounce of my blood draining to my dick. God, she’s so hot when she’s being mean to me.

---