Page 57 of Ella Gets the D
Preston lifts a shoulder. “You explained why it wouldn’t work. She’s coming out of a marriage and has kids. You left weeks ago, and you clearly dodge romantic relationships. Be grateful for frequent flier miles and go back to casual sex with people whose names you’ll forget in the morning.”
“Quit acting like a champ.”
“I take it that’s not a compliment?”
“It’s not, you ass.” I exhale and motion for the check. “Is it so bad to respect someone’s boundaries and not want to make their life harder? I came back here because I’m tired of having my reputation thrown in my face, and to give El space without another man breathing down her neck. She’s different. I can’t explain it, and I don’t understand it. I haven’t had sex with anyone, or even thought about another woman since we met.”
Time and distance have yet to pry off the chokehold this woman has on me. There are enough red flags to line the UN, enough reasons why whatever this is makes no fucking sense. I’ve had plenty of hookups, and I know this thing between us goes beyond the urge to fuck for a night.
“So what the hell are you doing here?”
WhatamI doing? Years ago, coming to London had brought an excitement that wore off as quickly as it came. I’m good at my job—damn good—but it feels like I’ve been biding my time, racking up success without purpose. I miss being close to my family and friends.
I miss…her.
“I don’t want to fuck up her fresh start.” The crowd threatens to drown out my confession, but Preston catches it.
His gaze drops to the rim of his glass. “Can I give you some advice?”
Tonight has been myFix My Lifeepisode. “Sure.”
“Don’t run. Time is priceless. It’s the one thing we can’t buy or get back. Get to know Ella better as a friend, but don’t miss out.” His stare dulls. “I’m getting my second chance fifteen years later. Don’t make the same mistake.”
The walk back to my suite takes twenty minutes. Hugh opens the wrought-iron door to the hotel with a nod. The elevator takes me to the fifth floor, a single bedroom with unobstructed views of Georgian townhomes and Hyde Park. Silence fills the suite, a place I’ve called home for the last few years. With all my hopping back and forth to DC, you’d think I’d bite the real estate bullet and purchase something out here that’s my own.
I slide off my loafers, pull my wallet and keys out of my jacket to put in the foyer bowl, and pad across regal carpeting in a gray and black pattern to the bedroom. The black leather bed frame faces the best view of London in the area that’s become the place I go when I need to clear my head.
Preston went back to his house in Knightsbridge after we left the bar. He’s off on a three-city tour tomorrow for work, which somehow coincides with the city his lady is in.
Here he is running toward the woman he wants, and I crossed the Atlantic Ocean, Celtic Sea, and English Channel to put distance between me and mine. We don’t share a roof, but Ella is here, anchored to my heart. I’ve fought to block it for weeks through work. The night is still young. I could find another way to redirect my attention and the weeks of pent-up energy I’ve had to take out at the gym or with my hand.
My phone dings.
Robyn reached out earlier in the week about dinner at her place. We always connect when I’m in town, exchanging more than discourse on contract negotiations.
I rub a hand over my face and reach inside my pants pocket. Me and my dick need to go to bed. I pull out my cell with every intention of charging it on the nightstand, but the name on the homescreen reanimates my exhausted body.
Ella.
Chapter 23
Ella
Hi.
Two letters.
It was the best I could come up with after pacing back and forth in my bedroom for longer than I care to admit. I finally built up the nerve to send a text after a glass of wine, one I picked up at a nearby shop Julian showed me. I busted the bottle wide open—the same way he probably has some fancy Englishwoman spread right now.
My kids’ first weekend with their father has been as eventful as someone roaming the grocery store after six because she didn’t want to spend another night alone in the house. That someone is me: loveless in aisle four. Stocking up on unhealthy snacks I don’t need in the house.
Last night, I slid across hardwood floors in knee-length socks, boy short undies, and an oversized tank to the tunes of Danity Kane. From “Damaged” to “Bad Girl,” I belted out every lyric off-key until the small feast I ordered arrived. Dinner at therestaurant, courtesy of Charles’s wallet, wasn’t enough. I also didn’t want to worry about a late snack and lunch today. Thus, two birds, one food order. I had every intention to stay up and bingeBuffy, the Vampire Slayer, but I woke up after midnight with crusted drool on my mouth and a handful of white popcorn in my grasp.
Today’s plan was simple: Make up for last night with an eventful day of well-earned laziness while resisting the urge to clean. Dodging Morgan’s attempts to get me to another art event was easy, but losing track of time meant forgetting to cook dinner and a quick run to pick up food that didn’t require assembly.
The quesadilla and nacho situation on the bed had me nice and cozy. Add in wine and a ’90s movie marathon on the computer, and texting Julian sounded like a good idea.
Shoot, what time is it over there?
