Page 18 of Perfect Match
“What?”
“It’s a private sex club for the wealthy.”
Sadie’s laughter roars through the phone. “You’re … kidding … me,” she splutters out, trying to catch her breath.
“What’s so funny?” Charli asks in the distance.
“Tori’s friend accidentally walked in on a guy showering at the hostel in Vienna,” she blurts out.
I nearly drop my phone. “How did you hear about that?”
“I follow Tina’s online blog. Shh … before she comes, just ask the guy about the club. Now I have to go too. But let me know what he says.”
We disconnect, and I’m left feeling like I’ve just been through a wash cycle at the laundromat. Sadie may seem like she bounces through life, but there is fierce loyalty in her big heart, and family is the centrepiece.
How was my father so different? Shirking his family responsibilities and disappearing out of our lives while we were still babies. When his sister, Sadie’s mother, not only went out of her way to keep in touch with us but also treated us more like daughters than our own mother did. It’s one of the great mysteries to me that I’ve determined I’ll probably never know the answer to. And I think, at this stage in my life, I’m okay with that.
***
I probably shouldn’t have had that fourth glass of red wine.
The bed tilts even when I turn my head slowly from left to right. I’m a lightweight drinker when it comes to keeping up with Tina and Amy. And every time I tell myselfnever again,I end up in the same position, collapsed on a bed with a bad case of the spins. I try moving only my eyes toward the sleeping forms of my friends; they’ve certainly got no problems falling asleep.
Stretching out my arm, I walk my fingers across the surface of the small table beside my bed until I snag my phone, then carefully bring it to me. The charging cable is long enough that it easily reaches without having to be unplugged. Flicking it on, the light flashes in the darkness, and I have to blink several times before I can make out the icons and words on the screen. I scroll to my last message with Gio.
It’s just after midnight, but over the last week, I’ve learned that Gio works late most nights and doesn’t go to bed until one in the morning. He’s also an early riser and up before seven. How someone survives on less than seven hours of sleep is beyond my understanding, and I can’t imagine it’s good for you. Although, tonight, I’m glad as I instigate a text message conversation for the first time.
Me:Are you still awake?
Gio:Ah, bella, I was just thinking about you.
Me:Seriously?
Gio:Of course. When I’m lying in bed in the dark, it’s hard to think of anything or anyone else.
This guy slays me when he says things like that. But I have to remember that one day together and some text messages don’t mean I know him, and even if he seems totally genuine, I need to tread carefully. For all I know, he could be a notorious playboy with multiple women around the world.
Me:I find that hard to believe.
Gio:Why?
Me:Because you’re you and I’m me.
My phone buzzes to life in my hand with an incoming call, and a squeak slips out of my open mouth when the caller ID flashes. It’s Gio, and the bravado I felt texting him slips away.
“Hello,” I answer cautiously, even though I know it’s him.
“Bella. You’re up late tonight.”
“Not really, as I’m in bed.”
“With me, it seems. I like that.” His voice deepens, and my stomach clenches.
“I hope you’re wearing protection, then,” I reply and instantly regret the stupid comment, even though his laughter rumbles across the connection. The wine hasn’t only made my head spin, it’s loosened my tongue too. I’ll be asking him what he’s wearing in a second if I don’t think before I speak.
“Tell me something about you that I don’t already know?” he asks, and the question throws me off.
“Are we playing twenty questions?”
