9. Willow

Willow

Rolling over, a smile already on my face despite the lack of sleep last night, I expect to find Ronan's warm and willing body. Instead, the sheets and pillow are cold. And empty. Gathering the sheet to my chest, I sit up, pushing my hair back as I blink my sleepy eyes open.

Somehow, instinctively, I know he's gone. My brain catches up and I take in the evidence to support my intuition. His shirt that was draped over the chair last night isn't there. An open drawer in the dresser looks empty. His watch from his bedside table is gone.

Leaning over the side of the bed, I grab my panties from the floor and slide them on before I get up and grab a tank top from my suitcase that I pull over my head. Twisting my hair into a messy bun, I walk out into the living area of the suite.

He's definitely gone.

His shoes and sandals are missing, and there's a folded piece of paper staring at me from the coffee table, my name written across it in bold print.

A tsunami-sized wave of mixed emotions crashes over me. At the forefront is disappointment and hurt, but fast on its heels comes anger — at myself for feeling hurt, for feeling anything at all for a man who is, for all intents and purposes, off-limits. Then worry creeps in. What could have possibly made him disappear in the early hours of the morning after our sex marathon last night?

Snatching up the note, I open it and begin to read.

I read it again, and then a third time, still trying to settle the tumultuous emotions swirling around inside of me. I fucking hate that I'm so mixed up over him leaving. I mean, we might not have come out and said it last night, but in my mind, this was a onetime thing. Well, maybe two, since I thought we still had a few days together.

A vacation fling, I could handle. I could rationalize it in my brain, so far departed from real life. He lives and plays on the other side of the country from me; the chances of us crossing paths for more than a few seconds after a game are slim to none.

But if that's all it was ever going to be, then why am I disappointed he had to go early? He made the right call, putting his daughter first. If anyone can appreciate that, it's me. In fact, him leaving to be with her just makes this all the more confusing. Because it confirms what I was already learning.

Ronan Sinclair is one of the good ones. Handsome, sexy, kind, respectful, and fucking amazing in bed.

That must be why I'm all torn up inside. I'm disappointed I'll be missing out on a few more days of orgasms. Nothing more.

But as I go through the motions of brushing my teeth and hair, my memory keeps betraying me. Instead of remembering the intense pleasure of Ronan making me come, it's the sweeter moments that keep popping into my head. The look of reverence in his eyes when he stroked back my hair as I rode him, my vibrator pressed to my clit. The gentleness with which he cupped my face and kissed me. And even earlier, before last night. The way he came to my rescue with the hotel room situation, even if that did turn out to be mutually beneficial.

There's no doubt about it. Ronan made the last few days exciting, fun, and totally unexpected.

So how am I meant to go through the rest of my vacation without him?

The answer to that question is this: by doing whatever I can think of to keep myself extremely busy. So, caving into my guilt, I open the computer I now regret bringing.

Yes, after only four days spent trying to ignore work, I give in, and out of a desperate need to keep my mind occupied, I open my inbox.

But as I sit here at a coffee shop just off the beach in Waikiki, I can't make myself focus on the mountain of messages that came in, despite having my out-of-office message turned on.

And as I keep looking around, my gaze consistently landing on cute, adorable, sickeningly happy couples strolling in the sunshine arm in arm, I just keep getting more and more angry. Both at myself and at the damn man consuming my thoughts.

Slamming my computer shut with a huff, I pack away my things, and stand up from the table. There's nothing pressing for me to do at work, nothing that would distract me from the swirling questions in my mind that won't go away, no matter how hard I've tried ever since waking up and finding Ronan gone.

Will it get back to my uncle that I hooked up with a player?

Is this going to ruin everything I've worked for?

Deep down, I want to believe the answer to both of those questions is no. I want to believe that Ronan truly is a good man and won't be the kind of guy to blab about what we did last night. After all, we were two consenting adults. Nothing bad happened, nothing that we didn't both want.

All the same, the rest of my vacation is nowhere near as relaxing and enjoyable as the first half. And when I sit down in my seat on the airplane that will carry me across the ocean, back to Vancouver and back to reality, I stare out the window at the clear blue skies of Hawaii and force myself to do what I must.

Leave Ronan, and his orgasms, where they belong. Here, in my memories, and far, far away from my real life.