Page 86 of For Your Eyes Only
An old song is trapped in my head as I breeze through Trip’s penthouse apartment. It’s an old song about stupidly sayingI love you, and I’ve been humming, floating on clouds of happiness, a silly grin on my face, since I got his text that he’s flying home early.
Stupid or not, tonight, I’m going to say it.
I bought five-dollar bouquets of fresh flowers, which I’ve arranged in every room. I’ve got my homemade marinara sauce simmering on the stove. The entire apartment smells delicious, and I’ve hand-rolled pasta and sent it through the machine that cuts it into perfect spaghetti. To think in the past, we did this by hand.
I remember how much he loved it the last time I made it for him. And yes, after only three days, I’ve missed him so much, I’ve turned into a complete, utterly smitten girlfriend, racking my brains to remember every single thing he loves.
My hair is piled high on my head, my red wrap dress is loose on my body, and I’m not wearing a bra—all things I know lead to lots of orgasms for me. I exhale a laugh as I lift the lid to give the sauce a stir and a taste.
Okay, so maybe I’m doing all this for me, too.
Lifting my phone, I check the time and read our last text exchange again. It’s two days old, but it still gives me a thrill.
He’d sent me the question,What’s your favorite sexual position?
I’d only taken as long as my fingers needed to reply,You on top, holding me down.Then I had a second thought.Or behind me, filling me up.
His eggplant emoji reply still makes me laugh, but what he said next made me wet and helped me decide on what to wear tonight.I like your red wrap dress. I like sliding my hands inside and unwrapping you like a present.
My chest squeezes, and I go to the bedroom. Taking my honeysuckle cologne from the dresser, I put a drop behind my ears, in the bend of my arm, between my breasts.
Closing my eyes, I dream of his smile, his rough hands, and aggressive kisses. Heat sizzles beneath my skin, and I slide my palms over my flat stomach, wishing they were his, sad he won’t be here for at least another hour.
Returning to the kitchen, I switch on the streaming music and lift the lid on the pot again, giving it a stir. I uncork a bottle of red wine and pour myself a glass. I check my Private Eyes account, but I’m all caught up on my messages. I’m caught up on everything.
It’s been a busy week with several new accounts. I’m on track to make six figures this month, which I still can’t believe. Bianca says I’m a natural, but she’s doing pretty well herself, and she never danced.
I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of the job, and I actually look forward to chatting with a few of the guys. They’re sweet, and they only want affirmation, a friend. Anmlvr turned out to be a sensitive soul whose heart breaks whenever he sees a wounded bird or roadkill. I’m pretty confident he’s not a serial killer, although I think he could save money by going to therapy rather than talking to me about it.
My Number 1 fan has been strangely silent this week, and I think BigBoi must’ve gotten busted by his wife, which suits me just fine. I don’t like chatting with married men.
I take a long sip of wine, wishing time would hurry up, wondering if I should go over and visit with Bianca, when a sharp rap on the door makes me jump a foot in the air. I’m not expecting anyone.
Walking slowly, I stop at the black wooden barrier and cautiously ask, “Who is it?”
“Gia, open up.”
It’s Franco, and my shoulders drop as I exhale in relief, quickly turning the bolt. “Hey—”
“I just got off the phone with Trip.” Franco enters without any greeting, and my heart beats a little faster. “He asked me to drop off this envelope.”
He places a large brown envelope on the table and glances around the room. His dark brow is furrowed, and he seems angry. Or maybe he’s worried?
“Is everything okay?” My voice is hesitant, and his dark eyes land on mine.
Something is in his expression I don’t like. “Do you have all your things with you here?”
“Yes… I mean, I think so. Bianca might have a few things at the condo, but for the most part—”
“Trip wants you to pack everything in your suitcase. Now.”
I’m confused. “I just unpacked my suitcase. Does he want me to move again?”
Franco’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t answer. My stomach is in knots when he starts for the door, still not answering.
“Franco!” I hurry after him. “Did something happen?”
He hesitates before leaving. “He’ll explain when he gets here. Just do what I said. Lock this door behind me.”