17. Lola

Lola

Stretching languidly in bed, I wake up slowly, reaching my hands out across the sheets—they are really nice, soft sheets—but then it occurs to me that Devon is not in bed with me.

Opening my eyes, I sniff, hoping to smell breakfast-related smells. If this was one of my romance books, and a night like last night had just happened, I would write the man as making something for her in the kitchen, like bacon and pancakes. Or French toast with strawberries.

My stomach growls, so I climb out of bed and wander into the main living area. Groping along the wall, I turn on a light and cover my eyes, the sudden brightness blinding me.

It's a really nice apartment, which is something I hadn't noticed last night in the dark while Devon was pinning me to the couch. Now, with the lights on, I see the modern appliances, the clean floors, and how tidy it is inside.

The decoration is modern and simple but not overly bare. There are some plants on the windowsill, and a somewhat colorful throw pillow on the couch still looks rumpled from the night before.

Having a lovely, clean apartment is a green flag. But not being in bed when I wake up is the opposite.

"Devon?" I call out, glancing around. The sun is just starting to shine through the windows. I check my watch—it's barely seven in the morning. I turn around, heading into the bathroom, but he's not there. I find another bedroom across the hall that has some exercise equipment in it, but no Devon there either.

"What the fuck?" I mutter to myself when I realize he's not in the apartment with me. I do another lap, checking the counters, floor, and walls for a sticky note of some kind to tell me he's run out to get coffee or donuts or flowers for me.

But there's nothing.

Devon snuck out of his own apartment and left me here. Surely, he's hoping I'll take the hint and leave before he comes back.

A blush spreads over my cheeks, and I hurry back to the bedroom, grabbing my clothes from the floor and quickly tugging them on, embarrassed at how wrinkly my skirt is from the various positions I was in last night.

I rummage through his cabinets and find a little tube of toothpaste, which I use on my finger to try to get my teeth as clean as possible. There's also a comb in the drawer, so I hastily run it through my hair before making sure I have everything—purse, phone, keys, wallet. Moving to the front door of the apartment, I put my hand on the door, stalling just in case he comes bursting back in.

Maybe he had an emergency. Maybe he did go to get me coffee, but the note fell off the counter and blew out the window. Or maybe he's trying to figure out how to tell me that his twin brother is the real hockey player, and I just had the most amazing sex with a different man.

But all of that is romance novel logic. And this is real life.

Devon got out of bed this morning and left before I could wake up because he didn't want to face me and didn't want to have to deal with telling me to go.

I twist the door handle. It's time to do the walk of shame.

My hotel is a short walk from his apartment, and luckily, there aren't many people out and about today, or I would be much more mortified at how I look. It would be clear to anyone with eyes that I was used up and spit out last night.

Except that's not true—I orgasmed twice. Devon was attentive to my every need, helping me clean up and tucking me into his arm afterward. Every single thing about being with him last night was lovely, up until the moment when I woke up and he was gone.

When I get back to my hotel room, I move quickly, packing my things and getting ready to leave. I didn't have a plan for chasing the inspiration past going to the game last night, but it's clearly time to move on from the Vipers.

I'll go back to Levi's or to my apartment in New York. But I can't stay here. The thought of running into Devon—or, god forbid, seeing him with another woman—makes me feel sick.

Once my suitcase is mostly put together, I look at flights. The next flight out to New York isn't for another six hours, so I decide to hop in the shower. I gather my clothes up and climb in, and what starts as a quick shower turns into an everything shower. I shave my legs, deep condition my hair, and exfoliate my entire body.

When I get out, I decide to keep the momentum going. It's clearly what I need after that one-night stand— a little self-care to remind me I'm me and that Devon leaving is his own weird thing.

I sit in front of the mirror, blow-drying my hair and bangs, then doing my makeup to perfection. I apply scented lotion and perfume, and I even put some bronzer on my bare shoulders to make them pop.

By the time I'm standing at the doorway to my hotel room with my hand on my suitcase, ready to walk out, I feel like a million dollars. I wear a simple sundress that shows off my shoulders and collarbone, and my hair swings satisfyingly every time I take a step. My shoes are classic pumps that accentuate my calves and give me a little height boost, making me feel more confident.

I'll go back to New York. I'll figure out which hockey team is from there and become a real fan. I'll go to all their games and find a different, swoony player to use as my inspiration for my book. And, if Devon happens to be there for an away game, he'll see that I'm a serious fan, no longer riding on a wagon or whatever he said to me last night in the bar.

I'm in the middle of checking out at the hotel counter when my phone rings.

"Hello?" I answer when I pick up.

"Ms. Burke?"

"That's me," I say, squeezing the phone between my shoulder and ear so I can take the receipt from the hotel clerk.

"Hi! This is Penelope from the PR department at Harlot Romance. I just wanted to reach out and see if you're still in Vermont?"

"I'm just about to catch a flight."

"Oh, good! Let's put that flight on hold. We have a very important meeting for you today. I'll send you the exact address for the location, but I believe it's in the boardroom of a hotel downtown."

"Penelope," I say, taking a breath. "Why would I put my flight on hold? Instead of you coming to me, I can just meet you in person in New York. I could even do tomorrow."

"Trust me, Ms. Burke, you will not want to miss this meeting."

Then, the phone call ends, and I stare at my phone, shocked. What is this—a TV show? Who just hangs up without saying goodbye? And what meeting could possibly be so important that I stay in Vermont for a second longer than necessary?