Page 6 of Tinsel in Telluride

I swivel off my stool, round the small island, and grab the bottle of Zinfandel from the fridge. For a split second, I contemplate drinking straight from the bottle. Then I remember the last time I did so and immediately grab a glass from the cupboard.

Hangovers suck when you have a toddler.

Pouring myself a generous amount, I return to my spot and double check that my son still hasn’t moved.

He hasn’t.

The clock on my phone reads eight, which means it’s five o’clock in Los Angeles. Maybe if I wait five more minutes, he’ll be out of the office for the day, and I can just leave a message.

Dread coils inside me, like a snake lying in wait, as I hover my thumb over Luca’s number.

I could make excuses all night if I needed to, but that doesn’t help me, Willow, or Zach.

It’s now or never.

Forcing my finger down, I wait. It rings three times before Luca’s deep, velvet baritone echoes through the speaker.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were ever going to call.”

Like a Pavlovian response, his voice takes me back to that night and all the filthy things he uttered while I was on my knees.

Fuck, Little Thief, you take my cock so well.

The whispered praises in my ear as I came all over his thick cock.

You’re such a good fucking girl.

Nope. I can’t do this.

Because this is the part of the truth I conveniently left out when I told my friends about Luca—mostly because I’m ashamed to admit it even to myself. As much as I hate him for what he did when I was young, the moment I hear his voice, I can’t forget the way he made my body sing. It was the same when I saw him at spring training this past March.

Panties instantly wet.

Which is a problem, because even if what started as a hate fuck turned into the kind of passion you only read about in romance novels, none of it was real.

It can’t be.

Not then. And not now.

I swallow hard past the knot in my throat and clench my shaking hands in an attempt to ground myself and remember why I called in the first place.

Monarch Hearts.

Not my cobweb filled pussy.

Make a plan.

Don’t give in to his devilish charm.

End the call.

Simple as that.

“Hello, Mr. Donati,” I say, proud of the way I’m able to keep my voice steady despite the overwhelming urge to vomit.

“Mr. Donati, is it?” Luca chuckles. “I’m fairly certain we’re past formalities, Ms. James.”

Why? Because I know what you sound like when you come?

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