On the way down to baggage claim, my mind continually flits between the last time I spent the night with Barnaby and Mason’s eager fucking. No, fucking is really too simple a word to describe what Mason and I just did—what I begged him to do. The encounter was so emotionally charged, I might call it making love if I knew anything about him. Just thinking about that deep-gray gaze of his and the feel of him filling me so perfectly sends a fresh crop of tingles right where it counts. Yet another depressing reminder that I’ve wasted years with a man who is lackluster in bed.
Fuck you, Barnaby, I think, hoping the words will finally banish the last dregs of regret. I deserved to feel every bit of what I felt with Mason, to have that kind of pleasure for once. But did it have to happen the way it did? Will I ever have the chance to find out if our connection was real?
Christ, I should not have been such a fucking coward afterward. I should have given him my number at least. He didn’t say why he’s in town or where he’s staying, only that he wasn’t going to be around for New Year’s. I would have been happy with just one more night, though. It wouldn’t have to be more than that. Enough to prove to myself that our encounter on the plane wasn’t a fluke. That the experiment could be repeated and produce the same results. Better ones, even.
That thought makes me snort. I totally want to fuck him again, “for science.”
I scan the baggage claim, but don’t see him, and he’d be a hard man to miss if he were here. Disappointed, I sigh and pull out my phone to turn it on. I need to let it go. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that I can now claim I’ve had. And I’m officially a member of the mile-high club, so there’s that. Nina’s going to flip out when I tell her.
If I tell her.
I frown, contemplating that conversation. She’ll congratulate me and want to celebrate, of course. But some part of me wants to savor the memory for a little longer before I share. It’s impossible to keep secrets from my boisterous, oversharing best friend who has made brutal honesty into an art form, but she doesn’t need to find out right away.
Out of habit, I start to hit Barnaby’s number, then grimace.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.
Instead I scroll to Nina’s and hit the call button while I watch the luggage start rolling along the conveyor belt.
“You’re here!” she squeals the second she answers. “Please tell me you’re in the mood for a night cap. I know it’s a Monday, but I am all over starting your vacay off right! Want me to come to you? Or are you in the mood to go out?”
Nina’s energy can be exhausting, but I’m relieved she wants to hang out so late. I need a dose of her bubbly enthusiasm to distract me. “I’m just picking up my bags now. Want to come over in about an hour?” I glance at my watch. It’s nearly 1AM., but time has never been a factor with her and I’m too wired to just go to my mom’s apartment and sleep.
“Sure! Why do you sound weird? Was it a bad flight? I know there was a weather delay.”
I grimace and take a shaky breath, realizing she must have heard the brittleness in my voice. “Nin, I ended things with Barnaby right before I left LA. Pretty sure it’s for good this time.”
“Oh!” She sounds excited at first, then says, “Oh,” in a more subdued tone. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I’ll bring the big guns, then. See you in an hour, okay?”
“See you, sweetie.”
I hang up and heave a long sigh. It was sweet of her not to blurt out her true feelings. She’s never gotten along with Barnaby, which, in retrospect, should have been the biggest red flag that we were doomed.
Nina has been the one constant in my life since we were kids, even over my family. But Barnaby fit an ideal I had fixed in my head that I still have a hard time letting go of. I guess life just isn’t meant to be that straightforward or easy.
A flash of red bandana on the baggage carousel catches my eye, and I push forward through the milling crowd to grab my suitcase. Ten minutes later, I’m in the back of another ride-share. The driver this time is an older man who is blessedly silent while country music filters through the speakers on our way downtown.
My mother’s Little Raven Street loft is silent and dark, not to mention frigid when I step off the elevator. Why Mom never bothered consolidating after she and Dad divorced, granting her all the Denver real estate, is beyond me. She could net a mint from this place, especially with how trendy this part of town has become. But home values are only going up, so maybe she’s being smart by holding onto it, even though she spends the bulk of her time in either D.C. or Englewood. This place has a spectacular view of the park and river, though, so I can understand why Mom’s attached to it. I am too, if I’m being honest, except for a few details, like its wonky thermostat. I manage to get the heat turned on and a pot of coffee brewing by the time Nina buzzes to come up.
My dark-haired, curvy best friend envelops me in a tight hug when she steps through the door, and I’m inundated in the scent of sweet almond oil and winter air. She steps back and holds up a canvas grocery bag that clinks with
