Page 83 of Mr. Hotshot CEO
Except that when I get home from the office, it’s usually eight or nine o’clock at night, and I still need to send a few emails. We’d hardly have any time together.
Part of me is itching to do some work again and feel productive. I can’t bake lemon squares and sun tan on the patio forever, though I definitely needed that break. As much as I hate to admit it, my family was right about something. But when I return to work, I won’t have Courtney anymore. I can’t put it off any longer—it’s my company, and I need to run it—and like it or not, she’s just not compatible with my regular life.
I sigh and turn onto my other side so I can’t see her anymore, but I can still hear her breathe and feel her warm presence beside me.
I’ll remember this as long as I live.
* * *
“I’ve always wantedto order room service,” Courtney says when we wake up on Saturday, “but it was too expensive to justify. Maybe we can do it this morning?” She gets on her knees and presses her hands together. “Please? I’ll give you sexual favors.”
“You’d give me sexual favors anyway,” I say.
“True.”
Unfortunately, room service arrives faster than expected. There’s enough time for her to get me off, but not enough time for me to make her scream. When I hear a knock on the door, I have my mouth between her legs.
“Shit,” I mutter, scrambling up and pulling on a robe. She giggles as she pulls on hers.
Once we’re decent, I open the door and a little cart is rolled into our room. There’s a pot of coffee, orange juice, and two domes to keep our plates warm. We eat breakfast together, as we’ve done many times before. I remember the first breakfast I made for her. Eggs and bacon, like we’re having now.
After today, there will be only one more breakfast.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
Shit. I didn’t realize my displeasure was showing on my face.
“Just fine,” I say. “I can’t wait to spend the day with you.”
“Me, too.”
We smile at each other, but my smile is a little forced.
After a leisurely breakfast—and me finishing what I’d started before our food arrived—we head out and walk around Old Montreal. I take Courtney’s hand in mine, and she doesn’t let go, except to point at things that interest her.
For today, I can pretend I have a girlfriend. I will do my best to forget reality.
Courtney is admiring some art in the window of a gallery when I look at my watch.
“Crap,” I say. “We’ve only got five minutes.”
“Five minutes until what?”
“You’ll see.”
We hurry down the narrow sidewalks until we reach a tiny pâtisserie. There’s a line-up outside, but I made reservations, so we bypass the line. Courtney and I are seated at a table in the back and given pastry menus. Everything sounds tasty.
“Let’s get a chocolate éclair,” she says. “Wait...no. The strawberry éclair.”
“I thought you’d want the chocolate-raspberry tart.”
After all the meals we’ve eaten together in the past couple of weeks, I’ve gotten a pretty good idea of what Courtney likes. She’s particularly fond of raspberry-flavored things.
“Yes!” she exclaims. “How did I miss that before?”
“I think we should get the chocolate cake with salted caramel, too.”
“Hmm...”
