Page 12 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“It’s a wonderful gesture, but that ticket must’ve cost a fortune.”
The gate agent decides it’s time to be helpful. “The full fare for a first-class nonstop flight to Florence is $10,608.”
My jaw comes unhinged and hangs somewhere in the middle of my chest.
Euro Hunk sees my horror and tries to make me feel better. “That’s the round-trip fare.”
“I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can pay you back for that. As much as I’d love to accept your generous offer, I can’t.”
He tilts his head as if he’s considering something. His gaze drops to my carry-on. “Your sketch pad.”
“What?” I’m so startled I say it too loudly, causing the gate agent to jump.
“Your sketch pad. I’ll take it in trade for the ticket.”
He says that like it’s a completely rational thing to barter a $10,000 ticket for and he fully expects me to hand it over without another thought. But what he doesn’t know is that my sketch pad doesn’t contain the doodles of a hobbyist.
It contains the designs for my entire spring collection, which I was going to begin work on as soon as I returned from my honeymoon.
The honeymoon might be off, but the collection isn’t—and I haven’t yet scanned the images into my computer.
Which means that if I give Euro Hunk my sketch pad, those designs are gone forever.
I tighten my grip on my carry-on and pull it behind my back. “That’s impossible.”
A flash of irritation darkens his eyes, but they quickly regain their tropical-water tranquility. I can tell he isn’t used to hearing no, but he does his best to cover it up with a tight smile.
“I see. Best of luck with your father.” He turns his attention to the gate agent, who’s watching our interaction as avidly as the bartender did. “It seems I won’t be needing to transfer the ticket after—”
“Wait.” Panicked, I grab a handful of his plush coat sleeve.
He looks down at me with a brow arched condescendingly.
“Why would you want the pad? Isn’t there something else I can give you?”
When his carnal smile makes a reappearance, I know how bad that sounded. I quickly backtrack. “That wasn’t a proposition.”
“No? Pity.”
We stare at each other, our gazes locked. The heat in his eyes is unmistakable. With a sinking feeling in my chest, I realize I have to make a choice between prostituting myself and losing my spring collection.
My panic turns into full-blown hysteria.
&nb
sp; Inside my body, a tug-of-war breaks out between my hormones, my brain, and my moral compass, which—if I’m being totally honest—is the first one to lose the fight.
So it’s logic versus hormones who commence a death match, while my uterus cheers on from the sidelines, waving pom-poms and jumping up and down in glee.
Logic tells me that I’ve been giving away my cookie for free for years to Brad with nothing to show for it. No, wait—those are my sneaky hormones, who are clearly on the side of Euro Hunk. What logic is actually telling me is that the flight is only moments away from boarding. If Euro Hunk wants some nookie, he’d probably settle for a quick blowie in a men’s room stall. There’s simply not enough time for anything else.
My hormones scream in happiness at the thought, but logic tells them sourly that if Euro Hunk is the kind of man who’d accept a blowie from a stranger in an airport restroom, he’s most likely riddled with STDs.
Team Hormones reminds me that there will be a condom machine in the men’s room.
Team Logic reminds me I could probably reconstruct the designs from memory. If not perfectly, enough to get by.
Team Hormones says yeah, but just look at him. His penis is probably as glorious as the rest of his body. He’d be doing us both a favor, sweetheart, and you’d get your sorry ass on that flight.
