I hear the shower turn off, so I quickly text him back.
Good to know that you wanted to screw someone who looked like my ex-wife, fuckface.
I get an instant response.
Hey, fucker! Good morning to you, too. And I never said I wanted to screw her because she looked like Evie. I said I wanted to screw her because she was a fucking GYMNAST!
I let out another laugh as I type a reply.
You’re a sick man, Max.
Then, I finish off the message.
And, yes, she was as bendy as she looked.
Dropping my cell on the bed, I glance longingly at the swimming pool right outside my door. I don’t even have time for my morning swim. My mornings always feel off if I haven’t been in the water. And this morning definitely feels off. Surfing would be my ideal way to start the day, but that will have to wait until the weekend, like always, when I can get to my beach house.
God, I fucking hate the corporate life.
On a sigh, I get up and pull on last night’s boxer shorts. I don’t want to have the uncomfortable morning-after conversation with the look-alike with my junk hanging out.
I’ve just covered my goods when the look-alike, whose name has evaded me, comes wandering into the bedroom, wrapped in a towel.
I inhale sharply as I see the reason why I fell off the wagon.
Fuck. She really does look like Evie.
A hell of a lot more than I expected. That, combined with last night’s consumption of alcohol, explains my current predicament.
I really went all out last night.
The look-alike smiles at me, biting the corner of her lip. Her hand is gripping the top of the towel, holding it in place.
I can’t do anything but stare at her. I feel like my insides are twisting in all the wrong directions, and I have the sick urge to fuck her again.
Jesus Christ.
I close my eyes to break the connection.
“Is this as awkward for you as it is for me?” she asks softly.
I open my eyes and stare over her shoulder. “Yeah.” More than you’ll ever know.
She lets out a laugh, squeaky and high-pitched. It’s nothing like Evie’s soul-touching soft laugh.
Fuck.
She needs to go—now.
“Look”—I scratch the back of my neck as I take a step toward my bathroom—“I’ve gotta jump in the shower and get ready for work. I’m running late already. You okay to let yourself out?”
“Oh…yeah, sure.”
I hear the disappointment in her voice loud and clear.
Instead of feeling like shit, I just feel relieved that she’ll be getting the hell out of here, and I can pretend that last night didn’t happen.
“Cool.” I tap a hand on the doorframe and disappear into the bathroom before she can say anything more.
Pulling my boxer shorts off, I turn the shower on hot and step inside. I put my head under the spray and close my eyes. But all I can see behind my lids is Evie’s face.
“Fuck!” I hiss, punching my fist against the tiled wall.
After ten years, I’m not over her, and I’m still pulling this same shit.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
God, I hate myself. And I hate Evie.
I hate her for living her life without me.
And I hate that I haven’t been able to live without her.
Because, really, all I have done for the last decade is exist inside the haze of my memories of her.
Half an hour later, I’m showered and dressed for work in a suit and tie. I hate ties, but as the head of Gunner Entertainment, I have to look the part.
I head into the living room of the bungalow I call home five days a week. There’s no sign of the blonde, except for the lingering strong scent of perfume.
Thank God.
I live in a rented bungalow at The Beverly Hills Hotel. I could get an apartment, but I can’t bring myself to put down roots here. Even though I grew up in Beverly Hills, it’s never felt like home.