Need Me (Mess with Me 3)

As I ride the elevator up to the penthouse level, I have a feeling my decision to ignore my hormones will haunt me for the rest of the night. But giving my right hand a workout won’t be so bad with an image of Ariana sleeping soft and rumpled in my head.

Being so aroused by everything she does should be alarming but truthfully I’m more worried that I’d really wanted to climb in with her and hold her until morning.

From the outside looking in, my life seems like a movie. Money, cars, girls and good times. Everyone wants a piece of the Lavin pie and they’ll do anything to get it.

When we first started it seemed like a long shot but my brother’s design skill and my powers of persuasion proved to be an invincible combination. Our achievements have gone beyond our wildest dreams.

But we didn’t know then how it would change our lives, the good and the bad. The people who only want you for what you can offer. The friends who fall away and the ones who reappear when it’s convenient.

It’s been a long time since I met someone who wasn’t interested in what my last name could provide.

Despite every inch of me clamoring to go back and wake her up, I have the feeling this won’t be the last time I see my little temptress. I believe in destiny and something tells me I won’t have to wait long before she calls me.

Whatever this is between us is too good to ignore.

The next morning is busy and I spend an hour on the phone with a buyer in London. Fashion never sleeps and a company like my brother’s is no exception. Andre has been making clothes since he was a teenager, even though everyone around him found it strange that he would bother.

Our mother had a team of stylists and tailors to outfit the family for the many social events we were required to attend each season. If she only knew how much we hated those events. Then again, my mother isn’t known for being sensitive to our needs. She loves us and she loved our father deeply until the day he died, but Sofia Lavin is a demanding woman.

Demanding women seem to be my type. I imagine my beautiful little troublemaker from the bar waking up to find me gone. She’s managed to sneak into my thoughts more than a few times since last night. Not just because she was stunning. Beautiful women are part of life in the fashion world.

No, there was something more about her, something indefinable that made her shine brighter than anyone else.

Maybe the only reason I wanted her number was because I’m not used to being told no. But it’s also because she was just so... unexpectedly delightful. I had fun talking to her, something that hasn’t happened in quite some time.

Most of the women I meet are more interested in impressing me, showing off how long their legs are and in securing an invitation to meet my brother.

Always my brother. His celebrity eclipses everything in his orbit, including me.

But this time, Andre wasn’t even part of the equation because she didn’t know who I was. Remembering her with that salt shaker makes me chuckle. Definitely didn’t know who I was. None of the models in our social circle would cast spells as a means to deter unwanted male attention. To most models attention is a currency they can never collect enough of.

I still can’t believe I told a stranger I felt unfulfilled.

My phone shows no missed calls or messages when I check. I was expecting to get a text when she woke up. Is it possible that she didn’t see my note?

“Philippe? Are you ready?” Andre leans his head in and then nods when I stand.

Meetings and more meetings are all I have to look forward to today.

But hopefully before it’s all over, I’ll have a date.

3

Opening my eyes in an unfamiliar place is on my list of things I’d rather not do. So when I wake up, it’s like a gunshot went off. I jackknife straight up in bed, looking around frantically.

Horrified, I swipe a bit of drool off my cheek. What the hell is going on? How long have I been asleep?

But no answers are forthcoming because I can tell instantly that no one else is in the room.

The covers are tucked around me, a fact I only discover when they twist around my legs as I stand. Still a bit disoriented, I glance around the room. It’s a pretty standard hotel room with a bed, a desk against the opposite wal

l and a television.

As usual, the bedside table has a phone and a notepad with the hotel’s logo at the top. I squint to see the message written there.

“Dude, your handwriting looks like a serial killer. Or maybe a doctor.”

Some of the doctors I’ve worked with over the years had handwriting you’d need a decoder ring to figure out. After peering at it for a while I manage to figure out what it says.