And this simple truth has a simple—although pretty intimidating—solution. If I still want to date Hayden after we get back to Los Angeles, once I get out of the shower, we should go out for coffee and discuss it like adults. And if he doesn’t return my feelings, if he wants to stay just friends . . . I think I can be a big girl about that. Probably. I just don’t want to lose him and his friendship completely.

So if that’s all we can have, I’ll just have to adjust. Even though the thought of going without the physical part, now that I know exactly how good he is in bed—fuck, that will suck. I’ve never come that many times in a row before. Seriously, my body is achy in the strangest places. But the soreness in my pussy and hips is strangely pleasant, a testament to how much fun we had last night. My dry spell has sure been broken, all right, and I’m already hungry for more.

Plus I’m just plain hungry. We probably don’t have time for a quickie, but I still look forward to eating breakfast with Hayden before I start my last day of boring meetings. And before our return flight, we’ll have another evening all to ourselves . . .

When I come out of the bathroom, the air-conditioning feels frigid against my damp skin, and I hug the towel tighter around me. “Lover?” I call, peeking into the living room.

It’s empty. Chuckling to myself, I realize Hayden must still be in bed. Walking on air, I let the front of my towel drift open. “Up for another round already?” I call out playfully. “Or are you just a lazy . . . ?” I trail off when I realize that the bedroom is empty.

My phone vibrates, and I scurry back to the bed’s nightstand to check. It’s a new text from Hayden. Is he surprising me with something? The butterflies in my stomach start waking up . . .

But they fall quiet again as I read:

Hayden : Sorry, I can’t do this.

So I fire back:

Emery : Can’t do what? You sprain your dick last night, sex machine? :P Don’t worry, we can find other uses for you.

I giggle to myself and wonder seriously where he went. To get coffee, probably.

After I’ve put on my business suit and makeup for the day, there’s still no answer. And when I see his things are gone, my stomach sinks even further. Devastated, I send another text.

Emery : What do you mean? Where are you?

Hayden still hasn’t turned up by the time I finish my huge, lonely breakfast. The room-service bellhop delivered enough for two people, even after I avoided the meat stuff. I can’t wait around for Hayden any longer. I have to head downstairs for the day’s first meeting. Under the conference table, I send text after increasingly frantic text, culminating in:

Emery : What the fuck are you talking about, you cryptic douche?

No response whatsoever. Nothing but radio silence. All I can do is read and reread his original text in the hopes of deciphering something new. Five little words, as short and painful as a scalpel—aimed right where I’d just begun to heal.

I didn’t think I was under any illusions. I didn’t let myself dream that we might become more than friends. Hell, I probably would have been fine with fuck-buddy status. But I never imagined that Hayden would just drop everything and bail like this. Use me and then throw me away like a tissue he’d finished jerking off into. He couldn’t even say good-bye to my face before he ran away. I guess I gave him more credit than he deserves.

Even though he probably won’t answer, I still can’t resist trying to call him during our lunch break. I’m not surprised when his voice-mail message immediately plays.

So this is how we end, huh? After giving me the most mind-blowing night I’ve ever had, he’s already moved on. I almost have to laugh. Roxy was right all along; I was never anything more than his latest conquest. Considering the many years I spent in school, I feel pretty fucking stupid right now. That JD after my name doesn’t mean shit. I fell for his game hook, line, and sinker.

God, I’m such an idiot—it’s almost impressive how dumb I am. How many people warned me about him? Roxy got burned and tried to save me from the same fate. Mom could tell what kind of man he is with a single glance. Even his own fucking sister dropped hints that should have sent me running for the hills. They all knew better, but I was too arrogant and horny to listen to any of them. I still fell for Hayden’s nice-guy act . . . playing along and dropping my panties just as he probably knew I would all along. I should have known that a shithead can’t change his spots.

Have I learned nothing these past few years? My relationships with men always end in disaster. They start out hopeful, then turn into something I never signed up for. I hated the passionless sex. The dull conversations. The pretending to be interested in basketball games or whatever damn sports thing they liked to watch on TV.

But as I consider all this, I realize there was none of that with Hayden. The sex was off-the-charts hot, and I can truly say that every time he opened his mouth, he kept me entertained. There was no forcing his hobbies on me, either. He took an interest in my hobbies instead. It really felt like we were building toward something real. And then . . . whammo. The floor fell out from beneath me.

Hating myself almost as much as I hate Hayden, I finish my last day of business meetings in a black mood and fly home alone.

• • •

When the taxi drops me off at almost eleven, some kind of masochistic curiosity prompts me to climb past my floor and up to Hayden’s. I peep around the corner of the stairwell. Light glows from underneath his condo door; he must be home for the night. I consider knocking and demanding an explanation, but right now, I’m not brave enough. The last thing I need is to break down in front of a man who’s already exploited my feelings.

Besides, all my texts went unanswered and all my calls went straight to voice mail. Hayden must have turned off his phone. He’s willing to miss communications from anyone, no matter how important, just to avoid even seeing my name on his screen.

So I already know perfectly well that he’s pushed me away. Knocking on his door will only force me to face that rejection in person. I don’t know which would be worse . . . Hayden outright sneering that he’s done with me, asking why I can’t take a hint, or Hayden gazing at me with pity in his eyes, trying to let me down easy. At least he won’t snow me with a fake apology just to set the stage for another booty call, like my last ex would always do. Hayden’s text made it pretty clear that he never wants to see me again—in or out of bed.

Lost in resentful thought, I startle when Hayden’s condo door opens. I watch in horrified disbelief as a buxom, long-legged woman saunters out. She looks tired, satisfied . . . and familiar.

Is that who I think it is? Even with the building’s hall lights dimmed for the night, Roxy’s face is unmistakable. And she’s dressed the most casual I’ve ever seen her, wearing flip-flops, Bermuda shorts, and a man’s T-shirt . . . is it Hayden’s? Her blond hair splays over her neck in a messy ponytail, as if she quickly pulled it back, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. Overall, she looks like she was rode hard and put away wet.

I feel sick to my stomach. That prick sure didn’t take long to replace me, did he? And with his ex, no less. Her dire warnings to stay away from Hayden clearly didn’t apply to herself.

Before Roxy can catch me lurking—or I start crying—I duck back into the stairwell and down to the safety of my condo.

• • •

The next few days pass in a dark funk. I bitch a little to Trina over lunch, then stop when I realize it doesn’t make me feel better. Neither does double-chocolate ice cream with hot fudge. Even my work can’t truly distract me. I’m numb and distracted, and tired, sleeping until my alarm demands that I get up or be late for work. I skip yoga, and generally feel exhausted.