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Authors: Ella James
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he’s okay. Nurses don’t lie.”
“I thought nurses couldn’t reveal a person’s medical condition.”
“That’s doctors.”
“Oh.”
The shuttle drops us off near the fence dividing the golf course from the airport—a fence I really don’t remember going through at all—and I try to keep myself centered as I think about my mystery bathroom guy, and Cross, and my bathroom guy, and Cross, and how it’ll be between us now, post-embarrassment. I guess he’ll probably be normal. Maybe extra nice. It’s me who’s going to be awkward.
That low, deep voice rolls through my mind: “There’s nothing to feel bad about, okay?”
He might have been a brawler and a bathroom slut, but my mystery guy was nice. I could tell.
I think of Adam at his book signing and feel a burst of anger. Adam sucks. Because he didn’t really love me. Or rather, we weren’t really in love. It took a dramatic act to help me figure that out. Is it because I wanted a happily ever after so badly I just overlooked all the signs?
Yes. And with Cross, I saw signs that weren’t there.
We’re approaching the twinkling landing strips, dotted with light-bathed control towers and those sleek, glass-looking hangers, when my mind starts playing tricks on me. Standing beside one of the planes, I think I see the guy from the bathroom.
I squint at him, because surely it’s not the same guy, but as we get closer, I grow more certain.
My feet stop moving; Lizzy and Hunter take a few steps forward without noticing I’ve stopped. Lizzy is the first to turn around.
“Sur—you coming?”
“Who is that?” I whisper.
“Who, Marchant?” She jerks her thumb his way. “Radcliffe. I’ve talked about him before.”
But I don’t. I…can’t. He can’t— “He can’t be Marchant.”
My head spins and I grab onto Lizzy’s forearm for support. I shake my head and look at him—the scoundrel’s handsome face and scruffy beard. This can’t be Marchant Radcliffe. Womanizing asshole. Pimp.
I just let him give me an orgasm.
4
SURI
Marchant. Marchant Radcliffe. I keep blinking at him, because I can’t believe my sexy bathroom guy is him: Marchant Radcliffe—the pimp .
We’re close enough now that he lifts his head, and his gaze laps up and down my body in a manner I assume he must use with his harem. I feel heat rush into my face, followed by the sting of tears in my eyes, because he didn’t understand me—back there when I was having my little freak-out. We didn’t have a real moment. He’s just good at this stuff. He’s good at…well, at womanizing. He’s a professional.
Lizzy grabs my hand, because my feet don’t seem to want to take me to the plane, and we drop back as Hunter strides forward to greet Marchant.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod—a little too frantically—and try to keep my wandering eyes off Marchant Radcliffe’s bulky shoulders. We’re less than twenty feet from the plane now, and as we get closer to the fold-out stairs, I can feel my body reacting—my skin warming, my heart rate speeding up—for a pimp, and it makes me feel like a fool.
I remind myself the attraction wasn’t one-sided. The wet-spot still visible on his pants attests to that. I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason I can’t look him in the eye and act like an adult about this.
But what if he says something in front of Lizzy and Hunter? Then they’ll know .
So what if they know?
It would change the way they think of me—that’s what.
I’m Suri Dalton. Suri Dalton of the random-hook-ups-are-just-weird policy. I’m the one who discouraged Lizzy from selling her V-card at a brothel, because having sex is supposed to be meaningful.
Except it wasn’t, was it? Having sex with Adam turned out not to feel so meaningful at all—at least in retrospect. So maybe I was wrong about what sex should be, but that doesn’t mean I want Hunter and Lizzy to know about The Bathroom Incident. I had a personal moment, during which I felt like
“I thought nurses couldn’t reveal a person’s medical condition.”
“That’s doctors.”
“Oh.”
The shuttle drops us off near the fence dividing the golf course from the airport—a fence I really don’t remember going through at all—and I try to keep myself centered as I think about my mystery bathroom guy, and Cross, and my bathroom guy, and Cross, and how it’ll be between us now, post-embarrassment. I guess he’ll probably be normal. Maybe extra nice. It’s me who’s going to be awkward.
That low, deep voice rolls through my mind: “There’s nothing to feel bad about, okay?”
He might have been a brawler and a bathroom slut, but my mystery guy was nice. I could tell.
I think of Adam at his book signing and feel a burst of anger. Adam sucks. Because he didn’t really love me. Or rather, we weren’t really in love. It took a dramatic act to help me figure that out. Is it because I wanted a happily ever after so badly I just overlooked all the signs?
Yes. And with Cross, I saw signs that weren’t there.
We’re approaching the twinkling landing strips, dotted with light-bathed control towers and those sleek, glass-looking hangers, when my mind starts playing tricks on me. Standing beside one of the planes, I think I see the guy from the bathroom.
I squint at him, because surely it’s not the same guy, but as we get closer, I grow more certain.
My feet stop moving; Lizzy and Hunter take a few steps forward without noticing I’ve stopped. Lizzy is the first to turn around.
“Sur—you coming?”
“Who is that?” I whisper.
“Who, Marchant?” She jerks her thumb his way. “Radcliffe. I’ve talked about him before.”
But I don’t. I…can’t. He can’t— “He can’t be Marchant.”
My head spins and I grab onto Lizzy’s forearm for support. I shake my head and look at him—the scoundrel’s handsome face and scruffy beard. This can’t be Marchant Radcliffe. Womanizing asshole. Pimp.
I just let him give me an orgasm.
4
SURI
Marchant. Marchant Radcliffe. I keep blinking at him, because I can’t believe my sexy bathroom guy is him: Marchant Radcliffe—the pimp .
We’re close enough now that he lifts his head, and his gaze laps up and down my body in a manner I assume he must use with his harem. I feel heat rush into my face, followed by the sting of tears in my eyes, because he didn’t understand me—back there when I was having my little freak-out. We didn’t have a real moment. He’s just good at this stuff. He’s good at…well, at womanizing. He’s a professional.
Lizzy grabs my hand, because my feet don’t seem to want to take me to the plane, and we drop back as Hunter strides forward to greet Marchant.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod—a little too frantically—and try to keep my wandering eyes off Marchant Radcliffe’s bulky shoulders. We’re less than twenty feet from the plane now, and as we get closer to the fold-out stairs, I can feel my body reacting—my skin warming, my heart rate speeding up—for a pimp, and it makes me feel like a fool.
I remind myself the attraction wasn’t one-sided. The wet-spot still visible on his pants attests to that. I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason I can’t look him in the eye and act like an adult about this.
But what if he says something in front of Lizzy and Hunter? Then they’ll know .
So what if they know?
It would change the way they think of me—that’s what.
I’m Suri Dalton. Suri Dalton of the random-hook-ups-are-just-weird policy. I’m the one who discouraged Lizzy from selling her V-card at a brothel, because having sex is supposed to be meaningful.
Except it wasn’t, was it? Having sex with Adam turned out not to feel so meaningful at all—at least in retrospect. So maybe I was wrong about what sex should be, but that doesn’t mean I want Hunter and Lizzy to know about The Bathroom Incident. I had a personal moment, during which I felt like
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