Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Katie
My hotel is in the center of New York, twenty stories tall and ultra-modern in appearance.
From the outside, you know this isn’t a fifty-dollar-a-night kind of place.
People with money stay here, and I’m one of them.
Strictly speaking, it isn’t my money, as my publishing company is being very generous, but my finances are in the best shape they’ve ever been in.
Back in my room, I collapse on the bed.
On the stark white ceiling, the fan spins around, circulating the air. The motion is calming, and I drift off to sleep, exhausted from my busy day.
A dozey sniff of my armpit hours later confirms I need a shower. The stench wakes me abruptly.
The bathroom is luxurious, boasting a huge bathtub, double sinks, and a rainfall shower. I change my mind and run a bath instead, pouring in a good helping of bubble bath to treat myself. Aroma bursting with violets and vanilla wafts off the foaming water.
As I wait for the tub to fill, my soles pad off the sumptuous carpet. Life right now is like living a dream.
My bed is massive with piles of white pillows you can get lost in.
Everything in the room is white and minimal, highlighted every so often with a silver accessory.
My phone lies on the side table, next to it Brad’s business card.
I contemplate phoning him, but decide a text message would be sufficient. A safety net from any awkward silence.
Perched on the side of the bed, my fingers drum aimlessly on the side table as I consider what to say.
Suddenly remembering the running tap, I dash to the bathroom to check on the heaven that awaits me.
Bubbles splash invitingly over the edge of the tub.
Unable to resist. I strip off and climb in, holding my phone high to ensure it doesn’t get wet.
Once settled, I return to composing my message.
How to seem interested but not desperate—a difficult combination to pull off. One I’ve never mastered.
Hello, Brad. It was lovely to meet you earlier. If the invite is still open, I’d love to meet for dinner. I’m in the city until Sunday. Let me know. Katie
Placing my phone on a towel on the floor, I lie back and let the warm, soapy water immerse me. I close my eyes and attempt to relax and meditate. My phone pings, so, I reach down to read the message, my heart beating a little harder.
Glad to hear from you. I’ll pick you up at 7 p.m. See you then. Brad
A bit presumptuous. He didn’t ask me about when it suited me to meet up or for suggestions of what to do.
Not that I know anywhere in New York, but it would be nice to be asked.
A chill runs up my spine at the familiarity of such a man, a man who assumes charge and bulldozes his way to what he wants.
Knobscratcher was the same. In the beginning, it was masculine and sexy.
He told me what was happening, never asked my opinion.
A domineering man is incredibly arousing until he becomes controlling.
Until you are unable to make simple decisions for yourself.
Shaking the negative thoughts from my head, I tell myself that Brad is not my ex-husband.
Not every man can be tarred with the same brush.
Not every man taking control or showing interest is dangerous.
I’m not getting any younger, and there isn’t a line of wealthy, handsome suitors breaking my door down.
I’m at an age that if I want to find a partner, I need to be open to all options, whether they take my breath away at first glance or not.
Brad suggested dinner, not a wedding proposal. I should just go along and enjoy the fact that someone wants to spend time with me. He’s a successful, good-looking man, and he’s my age. There’s no mileage long term in this relationship; we live on opposite sides of the Atlantic Ocean.
Yes, I’ll go tonight, and I will enjoy his company for what it is ― a nice evening out in a beautiful city with a gorgeous silver fox. Companionship with someone I can relate to while I’m halfway across the world from home.
What the hell am I going to wear? I traveled light and with thoughts of business meetings and TV appearances on my mind, not dates with hot production company owners.
I need advice; I need to speak to Amy. As if scolded, I clamber from the tub, wrapping a towel around my hair then shrugging into my robe.
Grabbing my laptop, I lie on my stomach on the bed and flip it open, pull up the video chat function, and press the picture of my friend and me together at a swanky hotel. The dial tone rings out—what time is it in London just now? I never even thought to check.
My beautiful friend’s smiling face fills the screen. She looks decent, so it must not be the middle of the night. At least she shouldn’t be pissed at being woken.
“Hello,” she squeals in her usual over the top manner. “How’s it going in the Big Apple? Tell me everything. All the details. Leave nothing—and I mean nothing out.”
“Amz, I miss you. I wish you were here with me. It’s incredible. It’s like being on a different planet.”
“I looked up The Morning Show online. You looked incredible. I couldn’t believe that first question, though.” She laughs. “Imagine asking you practically outright if you based your characters on the men you’ve had sex with.”
A flush rises across my chest and up my neck.
I’ve never told anyone that the male hero in my book is based on Lance or that the sexual encounters my characters experience are based on first-hand experience.
My heart aches slightly any time I think of him.
He’s a memory buried deep beneath the present, one I try not to revisit too often.
I miss him, even after over a year. Our situation was so unfair. A never-ending regret of timing gone wrong.
“Yes, I was slightly shocked by that myself.” I snort. “But I think I handled it all right. Anyway, I need some advice. Fashion advice.”
“Ooohhhh. Tell me more.” Amy loves overseeing people’s clothing decisions. She enjoys telling people what to do, full stop. “What are we dressing you for?”
“A date,” I whisper, hiding the fact from invisible onlookers.
“A date?” Her voice rises a few octaves, closer to making my ears bleed. “With who? How the hell have you had time to find a man? Where did you meet him? How old is he? What does he do? Did you have a one-night stand?” Her rapid-fire questions come at me like bullets, and I smile goofily back.
“One question at a time.” I wave my hands at the screen. “His name is Bradley Thomson. He’s a tad older than me, I think. I met him on set today.”
Her eyes widen, voice rising an octave. “He’s famous?”
“No… I don’t think so. He isn’t an actor. He...” I pause. “He owns the production company that produces The Morning Show. We met this morning, and he asked me out. He’s picking me up in four hours for dinner.”
“Four hours?” Determination flickers in her eyes.
“Right,” she commands, “swap me over to your phone so you can move. Get all your clothes out and lay them on the bed. Operation Sexy is underway. Katie Clark, you’re going to be a vixen this evening and finish it by giving him a happy ending worth remembering. ”
Four hours later, we’ve finally settled on an outfit for my date. I’m ready to go. It was a long, drawn-out process, which is hard to believe with the limited clothing I have brought with me. But Amy has this uncanny ability to put random pieces together and create an outfit worth considering.
My all-black ensemble is a fitted, knee-length dress with a low neckline to show my ample bosom.
No tights or stockings, but an emergency visit to the local beauty shop to buy instant fake tan was needed.
The beautiful white bathroom now has brown spots smattering every surface.
I hope the cleaners won’t be upset when they show up in the morning.
After I tried to scrub it off, it looked worse.
Looking at myself in the full-length mirror, I know I look good.
Every curve is on show. My hair is out and full of curls, and my make-up is classic with my now-signature red lips.
I’ve come to love the dark-framed glasses—they accentuate my eyes and give an individuality to my appearance.
My look is completed with simple black smart shoes with a super-high heel that make my butt bob and hips sway as I walk.
Amy is still chattering in the background.
We have been on the phone for hours, discussing tactics for my date while I got ready.
Every possible eventuality has been discussed and caused me multiple nervous breakdowns in the process.
Finally, I told her to stop talking about it.
She was making me more tense with her advice.
Picking my phone up from the side counter, I tell my loyal friend, “Amz, I have to go now. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“As soon as you wake up, you hear me?” she orders. “No, as soon as he has pulled his dick out of your vagina, you phone me and tell me all about it. I don’t care what time it is. I want to live vicariously through you. Fuck I need a shag,” she says.
I giggle at my crazy friend.
“I’m not going to sleep with him, Amz. But I will phone you in the morning. The right guy will come along, honey. You deserve some happiness too.”
“Okay, Katie. Let’s not let my crappy life ruin the mood of your big date tonight. Have a fantastic time. Love you.”
“Love you too, Amz.” I blow her a kiss and cut the call.
The clock shows 7:15 p.m. He’s late—maybe he changed his mind. I check my phone for the thousandth time in ten minutes. No messages. Butterflies swarm in my stomach, my anxiety rising with the beat of their wings. A knock at the door cuts through the nerves, and I totter over to open it.
Brad stands in the hallway looking dashing and incredibly confident.
He’s wearing a fitted navy suit with a crisp white shirt, as if he stepped out of a high-end men’s clothing catalog.
In his arms, he’s carrying a dozen red roses.
My jaw drops. This gorgeous man is here to collect me for a date. I can’t believe my luck.
“Katie Clark. Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
Words so laden with promise; my panties could drop of their own accord.
If he was to grab me now and take me into my room, my legs would spread enthusiastically.
But no. This is a proper date, and I’m not a cheap whore desperate for sex, I remind myself.
But if I’m going to have unconnected, casual sex, this man would be ideal with his strong body and piercing eyes—eyes that undress me on the doorstep.
“Hello,” I mumble, shy.
He passes me the bouquet.
“Thank you, they’re beautiful. You really shouldn’t have.”
“Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.” He smiles. “Shall we go?”
I place the flowers on the table and take his arm.
“Where are we going, Brad?”
He taps his nose with his finger. “That’s for me to know and you to be incredibly impressed when you find out, Katie Clark. I want to dazzle you.”
I grin at him like an idiot then mentally chastise myself for being so easily damn impressed. Romance is not only my job but my dream; the familiar excitement I’ve felt before reappears. The promise of what is to come.
As we walk out my front door, I tell myself to see where the night takes me. Not get ahead with stories of soulmates and finding love. But even as I do, I know the romantic inside is taking over, writing a happy ending that doesn’t quite exist yet.