Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I want to do something more with my life. Something I’m passionate about and also happen to be good at. Sometimes it’s hard to marry both, and you end up with a career you’re good at and a hobby you’re passionate about. I’ll take anything, but the restlessness I feel whenever I think of my old dreams of performing for an audience won’t let me stop looking.
Sighing, I set the paper aside, head to the bathroom to fill the tub, and once it’s ready, I dip my feet, and then the rest of me, inside. My mind wanders as I scrub myself. It’s strange—but every time I hop into the tub now, I think of him. Maybe because I desperately craved to slip into the tub the night he and I met. Or maybe because he’s always popping into my mind.
It happened over two weeks ago and I still haven’t been able to figure out his name. But that’s all right. I bet he can’t top it a second time. If I can’t find him, then I’d rather keep the memory.
I run the sponge over my body and the awakened slut in me clamors for more and more. I haven’t had sex since him. What’s the point? It won’t compare. It can’t. I’m saving myself for him again—but how on earth am I supposed to find him?
“Where are you, you sexy motherfucker?” I groan as I dip my finger under the water, down between my legs. Oh yes. I’ve made myself come thinking of him more times than I can count.
Maybe I should go out and have some actual sex. You know, with a partner.
But a replacement man holds no appeal, so I close my eyes and go for it. I’m not hurting anyone, and who knows? Maybe the fact that I want to see him again, so very desperately, will make him materialize at the hotel one of these days.
* * *
“Sara, the man in 1103 wants a reservation at—”
I nearly fall. “Excuse me?”
“Mr. Thackery. He wants a reservation at Mr. Chow.”
I glance at the man across the concierge desk from Carly. It’s not him.
Get a grip on yourself, Sara, I groan inwardly.
I exhale, shaking my head as I get to making the reservation. Some of our older guests don’t know about Open Table and keep making us do this for them. “Done. Eight thirty, party of four, sir. Would you like directions?”
After he nods, I pull out a map and explain the restaurant location while Carly tends to another guest.
“You need to get laid,” Robert, one of my coworkers, says when the guests leave.
I shake my head. “I need to dance—oops, hang on, my phone’s buzzing.” I get my phone out but don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Hi, I just arrived in the city and saw the ad saying you’re looking for a roommate.” A pause. “Are you still looking?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Bryn. Heyworth. Can we meet today? I sort of… don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight and was hoping—”
“I’m heading out in a half hour. Meet me in Nolita in an hour.” I give her the address of my building. “We can talk and see if we’ll be a good fit.”
“On my way,” she chirps, and I hang up. Damn it. She’s not from here. Outsiders are a pain. More than a roommate, some want a tour guide, and I don’t have time to take anyone around the city. Still, when I wrap up, I head to my apartment and tell myself I can’t afford to be picky. Without a roommate, my salary, minus the rent, will leave little for food and nothing for fun.
When I arrive, it’s not hard to spot her. There’s a young woman, about my age, standing by the building entrance with four suitcases surrounding her and a laptop bag slung from her shoulder.
“Bryn?” I ask drolly, rising my eyebrows.
“Sara?”
I nod, almost laughing to myself as we eye each other. I’d planned to interview her, but there’s a puppy-dog look in her eyes that gets to me. God, I’m a sucker for lost ones. Plus, the last thing this girl looks like is a criminal. Nope. She’s fashionably dressed, wearing little makeup, with her soft chestnut hair held back, and I’m suddenly struck with the fact that she’s the one.
The one I’ve been waiting for.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Bring those up!” I tell her, motioning to the luggage and grabbing two of the bags for her.
“Does this mean I’m your new roommate?” She sounds incredulous, but ecstatic, as she grabs the bags and follows me into the building.
“No, this means I like to take in strays,” I say as we climb into the elevator. At her confused silence, I nudge her. “Of course you’re my roommate. We’ll talk a bit upstairs.”