: Chapter 23

I lie in bed and wait for the damn room to stop spinning. Since when did they make that a feature in hotels?

I giggle to myself and sip some water from the bottle I brought up with me. It’s stupidly late—or stupidly early, depending on what end of the day you start from. I see now why James and James organizes these shindigs for a Friday night. At least nobody needs to be at work tomorrow. Except really important people like Drake, of course. Mr. High and Mighty. Mr. Pompous I-Work-So-Much-Harder-Than-Anyone-Else Asshole. Mr. Cum Face. Mr. Big Bastard McDouchebag.

I giggle some more, and realize I probably need some coffee. I’m still drunk, and I know from experience that there’s no point in trying to go to sleep when I’m drunk. There’s that spinning room thing going on, plus I need to pee and I feel a little nauseous.

And I can’t stop thinking about Mr. Big Arms O’Shit-Heel.

I manage to use the coffee machine, which of course makes me superior to Drake in at least one way. I might not be rich or hot or be able to perform amazing cunnilingus—to be fair, I’ve never tried. Maybe I’d be great at it. But anyway, I can use a coffee machine. I hold my cup aloft in victory.

After I saw him leave for his date, I planned to go back to my room and sulk, but Jacob and a gang of his pals from accounting happened to walk past and scooped me up to go along with them. A gang of people from accounting were a lot more fun than they sound, and one drink led to another. I met so many people and danced to so many cheesy tunes. I even won three games of pool in a row. I am always sensational at pool when I’m drunk.

All things considered, it was a far better night than I expected when I was hiding behind that giant plant watching Drake “I’ve Got You” James stroll out of the building. Looking lush. Smelling great. Probably on his way to getting laid.

Aaaaaagh, why did I have to think that? It’s not like I couldn’t have gotten laid tonight if I’d wanted to. I could be getting laid right now, in fact. Why aren’t I? Why am I alone in my hotel room at, uh, almost five in the morning? Could it be because I’m a sad and tragic figure who can’t get her head out of her ass? Or stop thinking about her boss’s ass? I think it might be.

My phone makes a little pinging noise. I pick it up and see a message from Emily.

Oh dear. I check my history and see that I did in fact call her at 3:20.

She responds with a string of emojis that include a smiley face, several hearts, and an eggplant. Ah. Maybe that’s why she’s up so early. My girlfriend be getting herself some penis! Whoop whoop!

I slump back on the bed, wishing that I was also getting some penis. One specific penis, in fact. I blow out air so fast my lips vibrate like a horse’s, which is extremely amusing, so I do it again.

I still have my phone in my hand, and without thinking about it, I google the name Drake James. I mean, yeah, it’s foolish and desperate, but everyone does this shit. I’ll just look at some pictures of him and try to convince myself he’s ugly.

Obviously, that doesn’t work. The man is incredibly fine. The shots of him from our company website are so hot, I’m amazed the screen doesn’t melt. He has that whole stern master-of-the-universe thing going on in them. I come across some coverage of a charity event to raise money for an animal shelter his sister-in-law Melanie volunteers at. The picture of him cuddling two French bulldogs in his arms has me swooning. Lucky French bulldogs. And then I see a photo that seems to have been posted tonight. Or last night, to be precise. It’s on some kind of gossipy showbiz website, and there’s a digital gallery of pics from the premiere of a new Broadway musical and the “exclusive and glitzy” aftershow party.

I flick through random photos of actors and stars I vaguely know, and then I find Drake. He’s standing on the red carpet, which of course is a thing that people like him do in the same way us mere mortals stand on the subway platform after work. He’s accessorized for the night with a statuesque brunette with killer curves, her bright blue eyes sparkling like a cloudless winter sky filtered through ice. She has her arms wrapped around him, and he’s smiling down at her indulgently as she poses for the camera. Billionaire playboy Drake James and his mystery date! the caption screams. Or is it me who screams? At least inside.

“Billionaire playboy”—who writes this crap? Yeah, okay, he technically comes from a family that could accurately be described as billionaires. And yes, he’s a boy. But a playboy? Is that true? Have I given my poor battered heart away to a playboy?

I stare at his mystery date. The woman he’s possibly right now performing amazing cunnilingus on in his hotel bed. The bed he fucked me in after only knowing me for a couple hours.

Shit. Of course he’s a playboy. That shouldn’t be a surprise. A man with his money, his looks, his charisma. If he wasn’t a playboy, he’d be married, wouldn’t he? And it’s not like he ever pretended to be anything else. He sat there at Emily’s wedding and told me to my face that he didn’t believe in happy endings. That he could never promise someone forever. In my case, he couldn’t promise me more than one night. Maybe his “mystery date” will fare better, but I doubt it.

Because Drake James isn’t merely a playboy. He’s a playboy workaholic who will put the professional before the personal every single time. If I factor in his family as well, I would never be at the top of his list of priorities. Even if he did want to be with me, it could never work. I’m no prima donna, and I’ve never been high maintenance, but even my under-developed ego couldn’t stand being third best.

There is no future for me and Drake, not even a hint of one, and I need to accept that. I need to stop dreaming and start living in the real world. The world where Jacob—a perfectly nice, funny, attractive man—spent ten minutes last night once again begging me to go to dinner with him.