I throw my phone onto the stack of towels and put my hands over my mouth.
I was supposed to say no.
Oh jeez, that did not go to plan.
Chapter 7
The plane pulls up to a slow halt on the tarmac at the Paris airport, and my nerves are at an all-time high. I already know that this is the stupidest thing I have ever done, and I haven’t even done it yet.
Anastacia, the flight attendant, smiles warmly. “I hope you had a good flight?”
“Yes. I did, thank you.”
I look around to see if I’ve left anything. The plane is, in one word, ridiculous. Luxurious on all fronts, and if I had forgotten for one moment who Tristan is, I have been promptly reminded.
A Miles.
Heir to the most successful media empire and from one of the wealthiest families in the world.
And a week ago . . . I hated his guts . . . and maybe I still do.
But there’s something about him that makes me want more.
I feel foolish being here. All it took was a few jokes and a little pity, and I fell into his arms and did the unthinkable. If I wanted a future with him, I would leave and play a little hard to get.
But I don’t.
I know what this is—one weekend away from routine, a sleazy conference encounter. And that’s okay with me. The reality of the situation is actually more than fine.
It’s a relief.
I don’t have to impress him, I don’t have to believe anything he says, and I most definitely don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not.
He’s fun and comfortable, and surprisingly he fits like an old shoe. His sexual prowess is just an added bonus.
My stomach drops as a wave of guilt runs through me for being here, for being sexually active with another man.
For loving every hard inch of him and then craving more.
It was supposed to be just one night.
I think back to what Marley said to me before I left. Shouldn’t I be living life for Wade and me?
If it were me who’d died, I would never want Wade to be untouched and unhappy.
I wou
ld want him to be happy and fulfilled as a man.
After we go home to New York on Sunday night, Tristan and I will never see each other again, and I can go home reinvigorated with enough sex in the tank to last me another five years. To be honest, I’m kind of proud that I’m doing something for myself for once.
This is so unlike me.
“The car is waiting for you, Mrs. Anderson,” Anastacia says.
“Thank you.” I walk down the stairs and out onto the tarmac. A black car is waiting.
The driver smiles and opens the car door. “Merci,” I say as I get in.