Hard No: Secret Baby Enemies to Lovers Romance by Hazel Parker (fun to read txt) 📗

by the French doors leading out to the patio. It lets me survey the interior of the space, and I find it almost barnlike in its emptiness.

It’s not empty of material finery, to be sure. It is, however, glaringly devoid of human presence, save for myself.

I don’t even have Curtis with me for company. When I told him about my intention to spend some time in Europe, he had asked in his formal way if I wanted him to accompany me. I’ve traveled without him before, and often, but this trip feels different, and he picked up on that right away.

On the face of it, there really was no reason for him to come along. After all, the hotel employs a staff of specialized servers called guest experience managers. They seemed hardwired to tend to a guest’s every need.

No, Curtis had wanted to come because he was worried about me. I suppose I’d given him plenty of reason to be, as I hadn’t left the house since my blow-up with Steph. I had still worked, of course, albeit from home. Some days, I didn’t even come out of my bedroom. Curtis was probably nervous that I was turning into a latter-day Howard Hughes.

Maybe there was some merit to his fears because staying in so much was out of character for me. I decided that a change of scenery was in order. I had cohorts in England that I hadn’t met with personally in some time, so now seemed as good a time as any. One private jet flight later, I was making the rounds in London.

I had been invited out for dinner on several occasions, which I begged off from every time. I didn’t want to be around people once I had concluded my business with them. It was like I had used up my reserves of social skills and had nothing left over for after-hours company.

I sigh. How have things come to this?

That’s no mystery. I know perfectly well how things have come to this, how I came to be skulking around a rain-drenched country an ocean away from home.

I lost track of how many times I had almost called Steph after I had arrived in London. After the first week, these urges were slightly less. By the second week, I was down to absently fiddling with my phone only a few dozen times a day.

You’re doing great, I tell myself sarcastically. Another year, and you might be able to go for an hour without thinking about her.

Except that’s the thing—I don’t want to go without thinking about her.

It would be the easiest thing in the world to check up on her without contacting her directly. I had a number of people who could stake out all three of her restaurants, observe the mood of the establishments and even that of Steph herself, if I wanted.

I won’t do it, though. It was meddling that had brought things to this state to begin with. And I can admit that it was in fact meddling. I don’t want to compound my mistake by intruding on her life again. I could try to fool myself that I could be covert about it, but again, it was trying to be sneaky that had caused my plans to blow up in my face.

I’m at a loss, though, as to what to do now. I can’t talk to Steph directly, I won’t check up on her, and not doing either is making me feel lost and at loose ends.

I pick up my phone and dial. It takes a moment for the international call to go through to the States.

“Hello?” says the voice on the other end. “Stone residence.”

“Hi, Curtis,” I say, smiling a little in spite of myself. It’s good to hear his voice. I haven’t phoned home the entire time I’ve been away.

“Hello, sir,” he replies. Does he sound glad to hear from me? It seems like he does.

“How is London?” he goes on.

“I think there’s going to be a worldwide shortage of cats and dogs because it’s been raining them ever since I got here,” I say.

He gives his restrained little laugh at that. Then, “And your colleagues, sir? Has your business with them gone well?”

I finish my drink and rise to make another one. “Gone well and now well gone. I seem to be without further plans at the moment.”

“Will you be returning home, then?” he asks.

I drop ice into my glass and pour Macallan Fine Scotch over it. “I don’t know, Curtis. I don’t think so. I guess I’m looking for the next place to drift along to.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, drifting seems rather out of character for you.”

“I would have thought you’d be glad I got myself out of the office for a while,” I say.

“These aren’t precisely the circumstances I would have wished for,” he counters.

“And what circumstances are those?” I ask, although we both know perfectly well. “Never mind, never mind. Any news from home?” I try to sound casual.

“No, sir. Everything at the house is in order. Nothing overly pressing has arrived for you in the mail, and of course, all calls have been forwarded on to your mobile number.”

“All of them?” I ask. I can’t help it.

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.”

“Sir?”

“Yes, Curtis?”

“If you don’t mind my saying—”

“I don’t mind at all,” I interrupt. “Say away.”

He pauses, clearly uncomfortable with giving his opinion when it wasn’t requested.

“It seems that you are waiting for something in much the same way that other parties are also waiting. Everyone involved appears to be waiting for someone else to break the silence.”

“And so?”

“And so, perhaps you should be the one to break this silence, sir.”

“I’m not so sure the…other party wants it to be broken, Curtis.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps