Plus, I was not interested in going on a date and making small talk. Not to mention, even though I was Italian, I had a strict rule against dating Italian men.
Who needed that macho bullshit?
Fuck. I was trapped. I had to play nice since he was the mayor and Dante had ordered it.
Inside my room, I finally poured the drink I’d been craving all afternoon.
I stripped off the beautiful white suit and hung it carefully in the closet. Standing in my underwear sipping my tequila, I eyed my clothes. What would be appropriate for dinner with the mayor? Fuck if I knew.
I dialed Dante.
“Ugh. The mayor asked me to dinner.”
“Oh, poor Gia.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“I know just the thing,” he said.
Of course, he did.
“Wear your black trousers with that emerald green camisole, and throw your leather blazer over it. Not the Patty Hearst one with the rough, scratched leather—the Gaultier one that looks like it’s silk.”
“Got it,” I said with my phone between my ear and shoulder, as I pawed through my rack of clothes in the closet. “What shoes? What jewelry?”
“Your emerald drop earrings—the monster-size ones that Nico got you for your fifth anniversary.”
“Yep. I have those.”
“And then on your feet, how about your peep-toe platform black Louboutin’s with the stiletto-heel?”
The question in his voice concerned me.
“You sure?”
He was quiet for a minute.
“No. Do closed-toe for tonight. The Jimmy Choo pumps.”
“Okay.
“Have fun,” he said. “Behave yourself.”
“Impossible,” I said and hung up.
If only he had advice to stop me from sleeping with the next handsome man who gave me attention…
I needed to get laid asap, or I would do something I would regret.
I texted James.
“Hey, cowboy. When are you free?”
I waited but there was no response.
Damn it.
But a small part of me was glad he didn’t respond.
I pretended that what was between me and James was purely physical, but that was a lie. It wasn’t fair to him. He was way more than a sexual partner. I loved James.
I always would. It’s just that we could never be together.
Unlike Nico, and even my latest love interest, Ryder, James could never know the things I’ve done in my life. I could never share that part of myself with him. I wouldn’t be able to bear the shame and guilt. I couldn’t bear him looking at me with scorn or disappointment.
Thinking this, I texted Ryder.
“San Francisco is really beautiful this time of year,” I wrote. “Most of the tourists who came for the summer and found it was cold AF have left. Now the really nice weather begins.”
I hit send and waited.
I saw the bubbles showing he was replying. Then the message appeared and made me smile.
“Is that a hint? You want me to book my ticket?”
“I wouldn’t complain if you did,” I wrote back.
“It wouldn’t be until after the first of the year. This new client has me running my ass off day and night. But after New Year’s Day, he’s heading back to Brazil for the rest of winter, and my job will end.”
“But that’s so far away,” I typed, wondering if the words conveyed the whine in my voice.
“I’d invite you to visit me here, but dude has me at his beck and call. Good news is he ain’t cheap.”
“What are you doing right now? This second?”
“I just got out of the shower.”
Jesus Christ.
I could just picture him, naked in all his glory.
“Do you have a towel around your waist?” I typed and then held my breath.
“Do you want me to have one?” he wrote back.
“Definitely not.”
“How about you?”
I set down the phone and tugged off my T-shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra.
I propped the phone on the dresser in my bedroom and then wriggled out of my jeans. Then I lay back and held the phone up above my head so it showed my head, my bare breasts, and the top of my black lace underwear, where I put my other hand.
After I sent the photo, I lay back in the bed, breathing heavy.
My phone dinged. I glanced over.
He had replied with one word: “Damn.”
I grabbed my phone, and before I could change my mind typed, “Let me see you. Please.”
To my surprise, he sent a short video. So of course I had to send one back.
And then I just said “Fuck it” and Facetimed him.
Eleven
James was drunk.
Nicoletta kept pouring him drink after drink out of the seeming endless pitcher of margarita she’d made. They were sitting on his deck overlooking the street below. The sun was setting, and he was out of sorts.
Seeing Gia had sent him into a tailspin.
He’d thought that his feelings for her were platonic. He’d thought that after all those blissful years as Genevieve’s husband and loving her with all his heart, his feelings for Gia would be gone.
But as soon as he saw her, he knew his feelings for Gia would never die. He would love her in some form forever. But he also knew they could never be together.
Nicoletta hadn’t brought it up yet, but he knew it was simply a matter of time.
She wasn’t an idiot. She must’ve felt the electricity between them.
Nicoletta sidled up to him, pressing her breast against his shoulder as she leaned down to fill up his glass once again.
He reached for her hand. “Sit, baby. You’ve been busy in the kitchen since we got home.”
“I like to take care of my man,” she said in a sweet voice.
He smiled, instantly feeling guilty for all the thoughts he had about Gia. He didn’t deserve Nicoletta. She was all soft and feminine and nurturing. Just what he needed after two years of lonely grieving for Genevieve. Nicoletta didn’t ask for much, just his time.
She sat down.
“Honey, you just seem like you have a lot on your mind. Is there anything I can do?”
“I owe you an explanation,” he said. “That woman?”
“The pretty brunette?”
Pretty. Gia was sexy,
