Around three p.m. Milan time, I woke up to a gentle prod from one of the pilots alerting me that the flight was over. When I sat up, Mr. Cole was heading out the door, screaming at someone on his phone in Italian.
I hoped everything with the show was okay. From his tone, it didn’t sound like it.
“Thank you.” I nodded to the pilot, stretching my arms.
“Miss Snow!” Mr. Cole screamed from outside. “Hurry your ass, please.”
I looked up at the pilot and shrugged. But then I realized I didn’t have to take the rude talk lying down. And I was capable of reciprocating.
“Hold your pants, Mr. Cole. I have to pee!” I supposed I should’ve used the word “piss” to mirror his rudeness, but pee sounded nicer.
I stood from my seat and gathered my things. As I passed the pilot, he gave me a wink, and I smirked like we were in some secret club belonging to the serfs.
In the bathroom, I took my time brushing my teeth for obvious reasons—yeesh, don’t think about it—fixed my hair into a ponytail, and washed my face. The entire twelve-hour flight felt like a dream. An erotic one. And now that the afternoon Milan sun shined bright, I needed a moment to gather myself. Mr. Cole and I were no longer inside our intimate, scotch-infused bubble. I hoped it wouldn’t be weird between us now.
You’re two grown adults. Of course it won’t be, I lied to myself. Still, I would make it absolutely clear that it had been a onetime thing—not that he’d want more from me—and as far as I was concerned the “deal” was fulfilled, not to mention he’d voided his right to accuse me of spinelessness.
I heard a knock on the bathroom door. “Lily? Are you all right” It was Cole. And he’d used my first name again, but I still felt uncomfortable using his. Distance was good. It would protect me.
Still, his concern made my heart do this little weird skip thing. “Yes, Mr. Cole.” I shoved my toothbrush into my accessory bag and then unlatched the door.
Mr. Cole stood there, arms crossed, his impatient frown greeting me. “There’s a shower at the hotel.”
“Good news. Because I’m feeling a little dirty,” I said, sliding past with a grin. I’d meant it in a good way, but the look on his face was filled with confusion. Or maybe curiosity? Then his cell rang, and the yelling in Italian commenced.
We made our way through immigration and customs, then on to the hotel. The area, at least from the limo, going down the Autostrada dei Laghi, looked so different than I imagined: normal with a lot of flat countryside, some trees, and I think I even saw…two McDonald’s?
How very Italian!
Once we got closer to the hotel, however, the Milan I’d seen in pictures started working its way into the scenery—the classic Italian-style architecture with that light brown and gray stone, wrought-iron balconies, and cute little shutters around the windows. The cobblestone one-way streets, barely wide enough for cars let alone the pedestrians or people on bicycles, were lined with art galleries, museums, and every pricy shop known to woman—Dolce, Pierre Cardin, Gucci. And then there were the crazy drivers in teeny-tiny cars or riding mopeds. The city buzzed with life, including tons of tourists and shoppers. Sadly, I wouldn’t be there long enough to do any of that, but I’d happily take whatever I got, which wasn’t bad at all.
From the limo, I snapped off a few shots of the Milan Cathedral and its elaborate Gothic-style turrets that stood off in the distance. However, when the driver turned down an adorable little street—filled with immaculately maintained, three- and four-story buildings tightly packed together—and then stopped in front of the Four Seasons, I put my phone down and stopped breathing. The beautiful arched doorways, the stone façade, the…everything. Later, I would do a little exploring and learn it had a full spa, indoor pool, cloistered garden, and had been built in the ’90s, to look like something from the fifteenth century. I would also make a mental note to have my ashes spread there.
“We’re staying here?” I asked, but Mr. Cole was busy yapping away on his phone. Pissed as hell.
The valet opened my door and let me out.
While Mr. Cole stayed absorbed in business, I absorbed the surroundings. The lobby—soaring arches, elaborate crown moldings, and antique chandeliers—was an eye-gasm. Italy on steroids with old-world style and modern drool qualities.
I resisted the urge to squeal. When the receptionist asked me about our reservations, I looked over at Mr. Cole, who gave me the scoot-scoot hand gesture.
“The reservation should be under the name Maxwell Cole,” I said.
“Sì, signorina. Here it is,” said the young brunette with an immaculate bun and red lips. “Two rooms, one night.”
“Yes. Thank you,” I replied.
She typed in a few things and then handed me the room cards. “If you need anything, Signorina Snow, please let us know.” The bellhop had already zoomed past us after gathering our luggage from the limo, so I assumed my things would be waiting.
I grabbed the keys, but when my eyes registered the room information printed on the envelopes, I coughed.
Holy shit. We were on the same floor in the executive suites with terraces. I had been sure he would put himself in the presidential suite and I’d be in one of their still fancy, but regular rooms. Had he downgraded just to be near me? And didn’t he realize the room he’d gotten me was way nicer than I needed? I was not Pretty Woman. I’m sorta the opposite, actually. Nevertheless, Roy Orbison’s voice still made an appearance in my head.
Holding up the keys, I looked over at Mr. Cole so he’d see we were all set.
Once again, he made the scoot-scoot gesture. I shook my head, trying not to appear ungrateful or nervous as we hit the elevator and he continued his call on his supersonic cell phone that stayed connected as we rode up. All the while, I kept wondering if he might ever decide to say anything about last night.
He had to say something, right? Or maybe I should? Then again, I didn’t want it to be weird between us.
The doors slid open, and I exited with him on my heels, subconsciously feeling a heat that wasn’t really there.
“Molto bene, Mauricio. Molto bene. But if you fuck this up, they won’t find the body,” he said.
I laughed as he disconnected the call.
“Something funny?” he snapped.
I handed him his envelope and then slid my key card into the reader at the door. “No, sir, Mr. Cole.” I held back a laugh.
“Good. Be ready at five o’clock.” He kept on going down the hall, and I watched him disappear around the corner. I felt relieved to see he wasn’t in the room next door. I don’t know why that would matter, but I suppose I didn’t want him hearing me sing in the shower.
I stepped inside my suite and instantly felt some of the tension drain from my body. I hadn’t realized how being around him really wound me up. He hadn’t said a word about last night, and while I would never resort to behaving like a needy woman, his lack of engagement had left my emotions stirring. Good or bad, I needed to know where we stood after last night.
Are you kidding me, Lil? Where we stood seemed rather clear to the negative fugly bitch inside my head. He was an extremely attractive, high-powered man who got anything he wanted from any woman he desired. Probably to him, my first coveted encounter with a penis was like a drive-thru chocolate milkshake. Sweet and tasty, but cheap and nothing special. I needed to act like a mature woman and put it all into perspective.
You gave your boss a blowjob on the corporate jet. Which perspective might that be, Lily? That you’re a dirty, dirty woman?
No. I’m an opportunist with extenuating circumstances. Yeah, that sounded better.
I turned, and my eyes swept through the fancy room. “Holy crap.” Then I spotted the huge panoramic windows and glass doors leading outside. All of Milan was right there in front of me. The entire thing. I walked out onto the terrace and made a giant shame-free squeal. Just beyond the wrought-iron, waist-high railing, an ocean of little red tile roofs, the Milan Cathedral, and pristine gardens were laid out. I could seriously die happy on this terrace.