Too Hard to Resist (Love Hotel #3)

Chapter 1

SAMMIE

‘So.’ My date, Ronald, leaned in closer, before his gaze dropped to my chest. ‘Have you ever thought about getting a boob job?’

My eyes popped and I almost choked on my white wine.

He did not just say that.

No. I must’ve misheard.

‘What did you say?’ I scanned the pub for the nearest exit.

‘I said you should get a boob job.’ He pointed at my breasts as he casually sipped his beer.

Un-bloody-believable.

He’d already asked me how many men I’d slept with and now he’d chosen another inappropriate first-date question.

‘It’s just that, y’know,’ he ran a hand through his short blond hair, ‘I prefer my women busty and you’re a bit lacking in the boobies department.’

Boobies department?

How old was this guy? Eight years old?

I opened my mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again.

Anyone who knew me would tell you that I wasn’t often lost for words, but right now I was struggling to understand how this muppet could think that it was okay to not only comment on my body, but also suggest that I got plastic surgery after knowing me for less than twenty minutes.

Ronald had more red flags than a carnival.

I shouldn’t be surprised. In the two years since I’d broken up with my ex, I’d been on more bad dates than I’d had hot dinners. And considering how much I loved food, that was saying something.

There was the guy that invited me to a swanky bar in central London, ordered champagne, then, when it came to paying the bill, had conveniently ‘lost’ his wallet.

Then there was the man who brought his mum and sister to the date to ‘get a second opinion’ (no, I wasn’t joking).

Oh, and I still remembered the dude who invited me back to his place, but conveniently forgot to tell me he was married.

Yep. Name a nightmare date and I’d bet that I could top it.

And when you added the unsolicited dick pics and the men I thought I’d had a good time with but conveniently ghosted me once we slept together to my list of crappy experiences, it was easy to see why my love life was a certified dumpster fire.

When I matched with Ronald on a dating app last night and he invited me out, I’d caved.

He was attractive and I’d just finished reading a swoony romance novel that tugged on my heartstrings.

It made me believe that love was possible and that I was destined to find the one .

So I thought, sod it. I’ll take one last roll of the dice.

Big mistake.

I should’ve just stayed at home and clipped my toenails or cleaned the toilet.

Anything would’ve been better than sitting in front of this wanker.

‘No, I haven’t considered getting my boobies done.’ I folded my arms across my chest. ‘Have you ever considered getting a personality transplant?’

Ronald’s face contorted with confusion.

‘Come again?’ His frowned deepened. ‘Why would I need to do that? The ladies love me,’ he winked.

Ugh . If there was one thing I hated more than a twat it was an arrogant twat.

‘Some women might be happy with a man that thinks it’s acceptable to tell them to get a breast enlargement, but not me, sunshine.

I’m done with this date.’ I reached into my purse, pulled out a ten-pound note to cover the cost of my wine, dropped it on the table, then stood up.

‘Me and my boobies are going home, alone . Have a nice life.’

I tossed my curly pink ombre hair over my shoulder and strutted out of the bar with my head held high.

Once I’d walked around the corner, I leant against the wall, my heart pounding against my chest, then blew out a heavy breath.

I’d never walked out of a date before. Normally I suffered through the awkwardness until the man decided it was time to call it a night. But I’d done the right thing.

As a memory of how the boys at school used to call me ‘pancake’ and ‘tiny tits’ popped into my head, my stomach clenched. It was like being teased in the playground all over again. I couldn’t keep putting myself through this.

I was tired.

Tired of the swiping.

Tired of men judging my body and treating me like shit.

Tired of men thinking I was so desperate for their usually underwhelming dick that they could do or say whatever they wanted.

I slid out of my heels, pulled my trainers out of my bag then sank my feet inside. That felt so much better.

When I thought about the fact that I’d squeezed myself into a sparkly knee-length dress, push-up bra and a pair of horrendously painful stilettos for this date, when I could’ve been chilling at home in a comfy onesie, anger bubbled in my chest. But that was life.

Every day, millions of women like me probably went on one disappointing date after another in the hope that maybe this time they’d find the one .

We believed that as long as we kissed enough frogs, we’d find our prince.

Perseverance was the name of the game, right?

I’d tried everything: apps, speed-dating events, being set up by well-meaning family members. I’d even paid a thousand-pound deposit to sign up for the Love Hotel: a fancy resort that promised to find my Mr Right.

My best friend Stella went there and ended up being matched with her ex. Sounds wild, but it was true. Now they were crazy in love.

Even her Love Empress, Jasmine (a silly job title they gave to the people at the hotel who helped bring couples together) found her dream man there.

And they weren’t the only ones. I’d lost count of the number of success stories I’d read about people who went to the hotel single and came back besotted.

That was what I wanted, but with every day that passed, it was looking like I had more chance of winning the lottery.

When I saw Jasmine at Stella’s fortieth birthday party, she thought I might have a chance of getting a place at the hotel. But that was months ago and I still hadn’t heard anything from the matchmaking team.

Maybe it was for the best.

Being single wasn’t so bad. I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, I didn’t have to keep putting the toilet seat down or clean up piss stains because a grown man didn’t know how to aim his dick properly in the toilet bowl.

I didn’t have to hold in my farts or smell his.

And I didn’t have to be left hanging on a string for years whilst I waited for my crappy boyfriend to finally commit.

Or feel like I was never enough.

Yeah. I was totally fine just how I was. I’d rather fly solo than be shacked up with a twat like Ronald. I’d had a lucky escape.

After pulling out my phone, I deleted every single crappy app, then exhaled.

There.

I was officially done with dating.

Filled with renewed confidence, I strutted towards the Tube station like the busy, wet London pavement was my catwalk.

Once I got home, I took a shower, put on my comfiest pyjamas, prepared an epic tray of snacks then fired up Netflix.

I was about to opt for bingeing Emily in Paris for the hundredth time, but then decided that one of the steamy 365 Days films was the perfect choice.

That date had made me tense, but a good orgasm would cure that frustration and swooning over that Italian hottie actor, Michele Morrone, was guaranteed to get me off.

I sprinted into my pink-and-white-decorated bedroom, opened the top drawer and pulled out my Waterfall Turbo 3,000. At least my vibrator wouldn’t comment on the size of my boobs.

Up yours, Ronald.

Just as I was about to return to the living room for my virtual date with the hot Italian stallion, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Stella.

‘Hey!’ I said, instantly feeling happier.

‘Hey, you!’ Stella said. ‘Just a quick one as I’m out having dinner with Max, but Jasmine called to say an important email was sent yesterday and you haven’t replied.’

‘Wait, what ?’ My heart thundered against my chest as I raced back to the living room and jumped on my bubble-gum-pink sofa. ‘Do you think I got the email?’

If Jasmine said there was a message, that could mean there was news on my application to the Love Hotel.

‘She wouldn’t say. But there’s only one way to find out!’

‘Oh my God!’ I said, my fingers trembling with excitement as I logged into my email account.

Despite scrolling through my overflowing inbox twice, I still couldn’t see anything from the Love Hotel and my heart sank.

Then I checked my junk. Once I’d sifted through dozens of boring emails about car insurance and flash sales, I spotted a message that made my eyes pop.

‘No fucking way!’ I shouted. ‘It’s from the Love Hotel!’

‘Amazing!’ Stella squealed. ‘Come on then! What does it say?’

My pulse raced as I scanned the beginning of the message.

Congratulations!

You are cordially invited to join us at the Love Hotel in Italy.

We’ve found your Mr Right!

‘Shut the front door!’ I screamed. ‘I’m in! I’m going to the Italian Love Hotel!’

‘Congrats, bestie! I’m so happy for you!’

‘I can’t bloody believe it!’

A couple of hours ago, I was cursing the hotel for not getting back to me and was firmly sworn off dating . Now, I’d just got the green light to go there.

I’d heard of coincidences and was open to the idea of putting stuff out to the universe, but it never really worked that quickly, did it?

Then again, I’d been asking the powers that be to send my Mr Right for years, not hours. And now it looked like they’d finally delivered.

‘Well, you’d better believe it! Make sure you confirm and pay the rest of the money ASAP, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow to chat properly. Congrats again!’

‘Thanks, hon. Enjoy your dinner and say hi to Max.’

As I hung up, excitement fizzed in my stomach. Places at the hotel were like gold dust so this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This was something I’d dreamed about ever since Stella went and told me how amazing the Love Hotel was.

If only I’d seen the email sooner, I wouldn’t have wasted time going on that crappy date with Ronald.

Anyway, it didn’t matter now. I was going to meet an amazing man.

I knew I’d said that I was done with dating, but this email changed everything .

After all the heartache and frustration, the search for my Mr Right was over.

No more dating apps.

No more dick pics (unless I asked for them, of course).

No more frogs.

No more fuckboys.

I wouldn’t have to put up with any more crap from Rude Ronalds.

My perfect match had been found.

And I was off to sunny Italy to meet him!