need —to see her again. She's taken up permanent
residency in my head and it's a problem.
What I need to do is just fuck her and be
done with it. Once I've gotten mine, I can move on. As it is, all I
can think about is how she would feel under me. If Olivia would
have just taken me up on my offer to bring her to her hotel last
night, I wouldn't be in this constant state of arousal. I would
have convinced her to come back to my hotel so I could finish what
I started in the bathroom on the damn plane.
Although she's staying at this hotel, my
pride has gotten the better of me—again. I refuse to seek her out
and ask for her room number at the front desk. I know I should just
call her like I said I would. The voice in my head tells me
otherwise—that I should just leave her alone. It's better if she
doesn't get messed up with me. Make it a clean break. Perhaps a
little distraction with Monica will help get my mind off
Olivia.
The guys and I continue to swap stories,
each trying to embarrass Travis as much as we can. Monica throws
her head back in laughter and places a hand on my chest.
“ You' re just so funny! ” she insists after hearing more of my stories.
She 's a pretty girl with an ugly laugh. I suppose it's one way
nature keeps its balance.
Monica stands on her toes, trying to
whisper into my ear, but I don't bend down to accommodate her. “Why
don't you show me your serious side upstairs in your room?” she
whispers loudly. Wow. She moves faster than I do.
I close my eyes. A part of me wants to
take her up on her offer just so I can get my rocks off, but a
bigger part of me just isn't into her. Like, at all. I'd only be
imagining that I'm with Olivia anyway.
“ I'm not staying at this hotel, doll. And,
no offense, but I'm not interested.”
Monica starts her ugly laugh again.
“ See?
You 're so
funny!”
I shake my head and take a long sip of my
beer, realizing that I 've got myself a cling-on. “Do you recognize my buddy,
Marc, over there?” I ask Monica, pointing to my friend who is deep
in conversation with one of Travis's co-workers.
Monica wraps an arm around her waist and
rests her opposite elbow upon her forearm, her free hand clutching
her nearly empty wine glass. “Is that Marcus Kennedy from KQMO?” she asks, pointing her
glass at Marc.
Since Marc is now a reporter and anchor on
a Seattle television station, he's a local celebrity of sorts. It
comes in handy now and then—like when we need last-minute dinner
reservations or tickets to a game. Most of the time, it's annoying
because a shit-ton people come up to him all the time. Although, on
the flip side of that coin, a lot of those people are women because
Marc is so damn good-looking. A single,
built-like-a-brick-shithouse, six-foot-two black man with eyes so
green you'd swear they weren't real makes many a woman cream. A guy
like him doesn't stay a secret for long. Needless to say, Marc has
become quite popular since coming back to Seattle.
“ Yep,” I confirm. “He's not seeing anyone.”
I flash my eyes wide at her. “A lot of these guys aren't married.
Mingle,” I encourage her. “I'm bowing out of contention because
I've just started seeing someone.” A lie, yes, but I need Monica to
move on.
Monica pouts her lower lip and looks at me
disappointedly. I nod my
head toward the group of men and she takes her cue, moving on to
her victim. I let out a breath, relieved that Monica's attention is
elsewhere. She's gorgeous, but she' s no Olivia.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Olivia
I 've had a long, very long, boring day. I signed myself up
for a series of lectures about post-traumatic stress disorder, the
basis of my own research. This morning, I sat through several
talks, a poster session, and then a “lunch and learn” presentation
on the use of Minipress in patients with severe post-traumatic
stress reactions. I'm a little disappointed. I haven't really
enjoyed any of the presentations I've been to and I'm starting to
lose
residency in my head and it's a problem.
What I need to do is just fuck her and be
done with it. Once I've gotten mine, I can move on. As it is, all I
can think about is how she would feel under me. If Olivia would
have just taken me up on my offer to bring her to her hotel last
night, I wouldn't be in this constant state of arousal. I would
have convinced her to come back to my hotel so I could finish what
I started in the bathroom on the damn plane.
Although she's staying at this hotel, my
pride has gotten the better of me—again. I refuse to seek her out
and ask for her room number at the front desk. I know I should just
call her like I said I would. The voice in my head tells me
otherwise—that I should just leave her alone. It's better if she
doesn't get messed up with me. Make it a clean break. Perhaps a
little distraction with Monica will help get my mind off
Olivia.
The guys and I continue to swap stories,
each trying to embarrass Travis as much as we can. Monica throws
her head back in laughter and places a hand on my chest.
“ You' re just so funny! ” she insists after hearing more of my stories.
She 's a pretty girl with an ugly laugh. I suppose it's one way
nature keeps its balance.
Monica stands on her toes, trying to
whisper into my ear, but I don't bend down to accommodate her. “Why
don't you show me your serious side upstairs in your room?” she
whispers loudly. Wow. She moves faster than I do.
I close my eyes. A part of me wants to
take her up on her offer just so I can get my rocks off, but a
bigger part of me just isn't into her. Like, at all. I'd only be
imagining that I'm with Olivia anyway.
“ I'm not staying at this hotel, doll. And,
no offense, but I'm not interested.”
Monica starts her ugly laugh again.
“ See?
You 're so
funny!”
I shake my head and take a long sip of my
beer, realizing that I 've got myself a cling-on. “Do you recognize my buddy,
Marc, over there?” I ask Monica, pointing to my friend who is deep
in conversation with one of Travis's co-workers.
Monica wraps an arm around her waist and
rests her opposite elbow upon her forearm, her free hand clutching
her nearly empty wine glass. “Is that Marcus Kennedy from KQMO?” she asks, pointing her
glass at Marc.
Since Marc is now a reporter and anchor on
a Seattle television station, he's a local celebrity of sorts. It
comes in handy now and then—like when we need last-minute dinner
reservations or tickets to a game. Most of the time, it's annoying
because a shit-ton people come up to him all the time. Although, on
the flip side of that coin, a lot of those people are women because
Marc is so damn good-looking. A single,
built-like-a-brick-shithouse, six-foot-two black man with eyes so
green you'd swear they weren't real makes many a woman cream. A guy
like him doesn't stay a secret for long. Needless to say, Marc has
become quite popular since coming back to Seattle.
“ Yep,” I confirm. “He's not seeing anyone.”
I flash my eyes wide at her. “A lot of these guys aren't married.
Mingle,” I encourage her. “I'm bowing out of contention because
I've just started seeing someone.” A lie, yes, but I need Monica to
move on.
Monica pouts her lower lip and looks at me
disappointedly. I nod my
head toward the group of men and she takes her cue, moving on to
her victim. I let out a breath, relieved that Monica's attention is
elsewhere. She's gorgeous, but she' s no Olivia.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Olivia
I 've had a long, very long, boring day. I signed myself up
for a series of lectures about post-traumatic stress disorder, the
basis of my own research. This morning, I sat through several
talks, a poster session, and then a “lunch and learn” presentation
on the use of Minipress in patients with severe post-traumatic
stress reactions. I'm a little disappointed. I haven't really
enjoyed any of the presentations I've been to and I'm starting to
lose
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