It’s easier to drown your temporary sorrow while wearing terry cloth.
Flopping down on the bed, I crack open my book again.
A little while later the door creaks, then it slides open with a loud, demanding groan. Laughter spills into the room. A man with a soft lilt to his English accent says, “I’ll make your last night so worth it.”
Worth it.
Those words resonate with me.
Trysts can make a night worthwhile. Can make a moment sing.
I’m glad Veronica’s going to have a fabulous night.
Even if it means my game plan has changed.
They stumble around the corner, and I wave at Veronica and Lars. Her lipstick is smeared. I hold up a hand before she can even breathe a word. “I’ll go make myself scarce in the lobby bar.”
“You’re a saint,” Lars says to me with a flirty smile. “A French saint. And she’s a French angel.”
“I don’t think she’s an angel, Lars,” I say.
“Even better.” He buries his face against her neck, smothering her skin in kisses.
“You don’t mind?” Veronica’s breath catches. “Oh my.”
That last comment was not meant for me.
“Enjoy yourself. Seize the night.”
“I will,” she says breathily. “Did you already seize yours?”
“He didn’t show.”
She knits her brow. “He didn’t?”
“Trust me, I scanned all of Jane for my handstander,” I say, tugging on panties and leggings under the robe, then dipping into the bathroom to pull on a sweatshirt.
When I pop out, Lars lifts his chin at me. “Did you go to Jane the bistro, or The Jane, the hip, trendy lounge bar that’s supposed to be popular with French ex-pats down on Kronerghaven?”
I freeze. “Are you kidding me? There are two Janes?”
Lars laughs, as he yanks Veronica impossibly closer. “It’s such an easy name to say and to spell. It was good for the tourists. But the newest one is The Jane.”
Veronica gasps and jumps up and down. “You know he went to the other Jane. You could still go and find him.”
Her excitement is adorable and thoroughly misplaced. I shake my head. “It’s eleven thirty. Have fun. Good night.”
“Bonsoir,” Lars says, a dirty sound to his voice that makes it clear he intends to give Veronica a hefty dose of bonsoir.
Grabbing my book, my glasses, and my phone, I head to the bar.
I’ve no interest in drinking though, so I find an empty chair at the edge of the lobby bar and tuck my feet under my legs.
I read till one in the morning.
With no sign of Veronica, I head to the front desk. “Do you have any extra rooms tonight?”
A ponytailed attendant smiles, taps the keyboard, then frowns. “We are all sold out.”
“Are you sure?”
“So sorry. But yes, I’m sure.”
I return to my chair. Surely, Veronica can’t go all night long.
But at two thirty, it’s still me and my book.
I yawn, barely able to stay awake anymore. My eyes flutter closed, and before I know it, I sit bolt upright at five thirty, greeted by the blazingly bright morning sun, and a massive crick in my neck, having spent the night curled up in an uncomfortable emerald green leather chair in the lobby of my hotel.
But it was worth it, evidently, I learn when I return to the room, greeted by a contrite but glowing Veronica.
“I’m so sorry I didn’t fetch you. We were busy, and then we were busy again, and then I crashed, and I’m the worst friend in the world.”
“Don’t even think twice about it. I’m glad you were—wink, wink—busy,” I say as we pack.
“I’m terrible. But you truly are a saint,” Veronica declares as she stuffs clothes and makeup hastily in her bag.
“I’ll be awaiting my official canonization any day, then.”
