Chapter 29 – pippa
PIPPA
If there’s a better way to wake up than in a luxury hotel room swathed in gazillion thread count sheets, then I don’t know about it.
The tropical sun is bright enough that it burns through the thick curtains, casting the bedroom in a warm hazy light. I’m sprawled out so wide, I’ve taken over the entire king-sized bed. Ryan is nowhere to be seen.
I’m deciding whether to drift back to sleep when I spot a Post-it stuck to the door. In Ryan’s sloppy handwriting, I can make out the words “open me” with an arrow pointing to the door handle.
I snatch the T-shirt he threw on the floor and pull it over my head in a half-hearted attempt at decency, just in case I accidentally flash housekeeping.
In the living room, I find another Post-it on the wet bar.
There are two arrows, one pointing to the full coffeepot and another pointing to a plate of pastries and grapes—as if I could miss that.
Ryan also left another note, which, with his messy writing, sprawls across three of the little pieces of paper.
Working out in the hotel gym. Keeping it tight, you’re welcome ;) Going for a walk on the beach after, if you want to join.
He could have just texted me that. For some reason, it makes my pulse flutter that he wrote me a note instead. It’s something physical, personal. Some sappy part of my head wants to grab the Post-its and shove them in my purse to look at later.
I pour a cup of mercifully still-hot coffee and shove a cherry danish into my mouth. I groan as the flaky pastry melts on my tongue, and my stomach lets out a grumble that says hurry up, more bites. I’m starving, especially after everything we got up to last night.
Ryan got back late from the tournament last night—so late that I’d already fallen asleep watching old episodes of Golden Girls in bed. Apparently, Puerto Ricans are Golden Girls fans, because there were marathons on more than one channel.
I woke up to soft lips moving up my neck and a hand curving over my hip. The TV was off, leaving only the distant sounds of waves crashing on the ocean and warm wind ruffling the palm trees. Ryan’s heated body curled around mine.
“Wake up, Pips,” he murmured.
“Did you win?” I asked blearily, suddenly remembering where he’d been. The final round of the tournament, the whole reason we came here in the first place.
“Second place,” he said.
“I’m sorry.” When it comes to poker, Ryan’s expectations of himself are sky-high. I’ve seen him sit sullenly in his room for days after a second-place finish.
Last night, though, he just chuckled. “I’ll live. Besides, I’ve got one thing that the first-place dude will never get to touch.”
His hand curled around my jaw, directing my lips to his. The kiss was soft, slow, almost reverent. Ryan slowly stripped my clothes off and kissed me everywhere—across my stomach, on the palm of my hand, my forehead, even my ankles. There wasn’t a single inch of my skin untouched by his lips.
When he guided his cock inside me, he gazed down at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
His eyes didn’t leave mine as he rolled his hips in careful, gentle strokes.
It was so intimate, I almost wanted to look away.
It was too much, but nothing in the world could have made me ask him to stop.
Ryan coaxed two orgasms from me with his hand on my clit, but making me come didn’t feel like the goal.
It felt like he wanted to worship me. No man has ever made love to me like that.
We fell asleep with our limbs tangled and our breaths mingling. I can’t believe Ryan managed to extricate himself this morning without waking me. Either I was dead asleep, or he was super careful.
Careful isn’t a word I would usually associate with Ryan. He’s more the type to plunge headfirst into any situation, somehow charming his way around his recklessness. When I was younger, I used to resent it. I’d try so hard to do things right, and he’d just sail through effortlessly.
Now, I can’t say that’s true. I’ve seen what it looks like when Ryan tries.
The way he turned on The Vampire Diaries for me when I was crashing out.
The time he rushed down to rescue me from Charlie, my scary date.
Hell, even the obsessive way he plays poker.
Maybe he wasn’t always this way, but I also haven’t left him as much room to change as I could have.
As I polish off a lemon muffin and the entire bowl of grapes, I hope Ryan wasn’t expecting me to save any pastries for him.
The only thing left is a small cinnamon roll, and if I’m honest, I could probably eat that too if I really pushed myself.
Oh, well. If he’s really hungry, there’s no law saying we can’t extend our walk on the beach to a walk to the hotel dining room.
Since Ryan’s already at the gym, I should probably at least try to be productive. I stand to go get my laptop and make it one step before tripping over a bag.
Now that I see it, I can’t believe I missed it. Sleepiness and hunger is one hell of a combo, I guess. It’s a gold gift bag with red tissue paper, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out who it’s from and who it’s for.
I pull out the tissue paper, not sure what to expect.
Definitely not a shoebox, that’s for sure—and definitely, definitely not a brown shoebox with Christian Louboutin’s signature on top.
My heart thuds in my throat as I take off the lid and to reveal beautiful, brand new Louboutin pumps.
The exact same ones I broke at our parents’ Christmas party.
Except these aren’t secondhand, and they don’t have a scuff on the toe that I have to watch a YouTube tutorial to get out. They’re brand new, and exactly my size.
It’s unbelievably thoughtful, because I know Ryan is not a fashion guy. I don’t know what he did to figure out the exact kind of shoe I had, especially because I’m pretty sure my model was discontinued. And how perfectly Ryan, too, to prank me with a different shoebox so he’d surprise me even more.
Most surprising of all, he didn’t make me open them in front of him. I’ve had guys buy me expensive gifts before, and there’s always an expectation under the surface. They want over-the-top gratitude, usually in the form of sexual favors.
The fact that Ryan left them for me to find means he got them just to make me happy. It makes my heart feel too big for my chest.
This whole trip has been better than I ever expected.
Last night, Ryan and I even went on our first real date.
We went out to a tiny restaurant that a guy from the tournament recommended, a place where only locals eat.
They thought Ryan and my clumsy Spanish was hilarious, and they gave us free refills on our sangria.
After we ate, we held hands and walked for a while before we caught a ride back to the hotel.
It was weird to be out in the open together like that, but it was nice, too.
Honestly, it all feels dangerously close to what a real relationship with Ryan would be like.
I shake my head. I know that’s impossible. This trip feels so nice, but it won’t last. Tomorrow, we’ll go back home where people know us. Where our friends have no idea we’re sleeping together.
Where our parents are still married.
So I know better than to think the past few days are anything more than a mirage.
I slip on my new shoes and stride back into the bedroom to grab my laptop. It opens to the last document I was working on, which I wrote after dinner, while Ryan was playing in the finals.
It’s refreshing, after dating a bunch of strangers who have no context about you, who only know your name and whatever little details you wrote in your profile, to spend time with someone who really sees you.
Someone who can tell when you laugh politely, but you don’t really think a joke is funny.
Someone who knows all the nerdiest things you’re obsessed with but only judges you a little.
Someone who feels like a home to come back to.
Someone who’s truly kind, in a world that can feel so cruel.
It gives you hope that through all the stalkers, rude guys, and cryptobros, there’s someone waiting who will make you laugh about all of it. Maybe there’s someone out there for you to spend forever with.
I sigh, rereading it. It was supposed to be about my date with Jacob. Technically, it is—at the beginning, I wrote about the blackout, about going on a double date with my best friend. But all the emotional musing is obviously about Ryan. The guy I’m not actually dating, and never will be able to.
I send the piece to Ingrid before I can second guess it. It’s not like my usual funny, flippant, cutting writing. It’s uncharacteristically soft, and my editor might hate it. I’m still driving more traffic to the site than anyone else. Ingrid can deal.
Shutting my laptop, I strip down and hop in the shower to wash off last night’s activities. I throw on a black sundress and, regrettably, a pair of flip flops. My feet don’t want to part with their new Louboutins, but red bottoms and sand don’t mix.
Ingrid’s reply is waiting for me when I check my phone.
Ingrid
This is your best piece yet. Well done.
I sigh as I sink back down onto the bed. Back in Toronto, an amazing life is waiting for me. An exciting promotion at my dream job. A swanky New Year’s Eve party where I get to rub shoulders with celebrities while I have a gorgeous, handsome man on my arm.
But right now, I wish I could just stay here forever—in this hotel, in this room, in this little bubble of bliss I have with Ryan. We could stay here and pretend it’ll last forever.