I reach for her. Before I even open my eyes, I can feel the cool emptiness on her side of the bed.
“Lucky?” I get up. The door of the bathroom is open. She’s not in there. Or out on the balcony. Her bag and
her clothes are gone. She fucking left? Why? Damn it, Irish. You can’t just fucking leave me. I spot a scrawled
note on the desk.
Noah Steel, Thank you for the best weekend of my life. I have to go into work early today and I didn’t want to
wake you. My number is 212-555-4004. Maybe we can do it again sometime.
xx Lucky Irish
Maybe we can do it again sometime? What the fuck?
I find my phone. There are dozens of missed calls and messages but I ignore all of them. I key in Lucky’s
number, then punch the call button.
Please answer it, baby girl. It rings eight times then goes straight to voicemail. Hi, it’s Lucky. Please leave a
message. Her angel’s voice makes my heart hurt.
“Lucky, I’m going to forgive you for walking out on me because it’s Monday and you said you have a busy
day. However, I need to see you again tonight, so don’t even think about not answering my calls. Answer me,
Irish. Or, even better, call me back. That’s an order. It was the best weekend of my life too, baby girl. That means
something. You’re so fucking beautiful. Please. Call me back. I need to see you.”
Fuck. I get dressed in a rush, take the elevator down to the front desk and check out. I can’t get a cab right
away so I walk the few blocks back to my apartment, practically running, like a fucking lunatic, holding my phone
in case she calls.
A text comes through and I feel almost dizzy with relief. But the text is from Cash.
Don’t forget about the meeting with Ashton Holdings at 10. Where are you?
I’m usually at the office by seven thirty. The time now is 8:49. My phone dies. Fuck. I get back to my
apartment. For the first time since I bought it, my first reaction to arriving home isn’t calmness. This apartment has
always made me feel like I’ve achieved everything I wanted to achieve. The multi- million dollar floor plan, the
natural light, the hum of luxury, the no- expense-spared minimalist decorating, the treetops of Central Park and the
city skyline have always reminded me that all our hard work has been worth it. We’ve achieved a level of success
few people ever reach and this apartment provides me with a constant display of that.
But not today. Today it just feels empty. Without the sparked light Lucky Irish’s presence infuses into
everything, the place looks dull and stark.
I want her here. I want to take care of her and give her everything she’s ever wanted and love her so hard she
can’t live without me.
I want to make her laugh, lavish her with comfort and safety and make love to her until she’s crying my name
because I feel so fucking good. Like I did all weekend.
It wasn’t enough. It’ll never be enough. I plug in my phone and try to bring up her number but it’s just the
battery icon and won’t let me in.
So I storm into the shower and turn it to the coldest it’ll go, stripping off and st epping under the jets.
It’s painful but it’s what I need. I need pain. All I can feel is pain. After an entire weekend with the most
luscious, gorgeous, sexiest girl in the world—who felt so fucking good when her slippery, ludicrously sweet body
gripped my cock so tightly I had no choice but to spill inside her, again and again—to suddenly be without her is
nothing less than agony.
There was a crazy, existential triumph to spilling my seed inside her. She was the most profound kind of
pleasure I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t have put a barrier between us if someone had held a gun to my head. I
needed to feel her and get as close to her as possible like I needed air. I fucking wanted to knock her up with a
desperate, needy kind of lust I’ve never experienced before.
Mine. My girl. The girl of my dreams. What if I can’t find her? Is she okay? Where the fuck is she? I can trace
the phone, if she won’t answer my calls. One of our tech guys should be able to do that for me.
Are you running from me, Irish? Why? A thousand women stalk me. The only one I want runs. I already feel
like I’ll go mad if I can’t feel her again. Or hear her musical, infectious, adorable laughter. Or hold her close and
tell her how beautiful she is.
Fuck, I’m really losing it. I slam off the shower, towel myself off and find a suit in my huge walk- in closet. I
don’t care if I’m on time for our meeting with fucking Ashton
Holdings. I don’t know what they think they’ll achieve by meeting with us anyway. We’ve made our offer,
they can take it or leave it. They’re dreaming if they think we’ll go a penny higher than fifteen million.
Going through the motions, I put on an Armani suit and a blue tie, the closest color I can find to her eyes. But
no other blue is as de ep and bright and light-filled as Lucky Irish’s eyes. Reality without her feels weirdly and
severely unbearable.
I smooth my hair into place and check my phone, which is charged to 8%. First I text my driver and tell him to
meet me downstairs. I can’t hear my phone when I’m on the Ducati. In the back of a limo, I won’t miss her.
I call her. Eight endless rings. Hi, it’s Lucky. Please leave a message. “Lucky Irish.” I’ll hunt you down like a
Neanderthal, sling you over my shoulder and carry you back to my cave if I have to. “I miss your voice. I miss
your lips. I miss that sweet, wet pussy like you wouldn’t believe, baby girl. I miss your blue eyes and your eleven
freckles. I miss those little moans you make when you’re coming so hard for me. I miss your eyelashes, blinking at
me. I miss everything about you. I want to take you out to dinner tonight. Anywhere you want. Somewhere
neutral, if you insist. But I want to get real with you, Lucky. I wanted to talk to you about that before the weekend
ended but you left before I could. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Please. Call me back. Tell me where to
pick you up and I’ll be there. Call me, Irish.”
I hang up, staring at the phone for a few seconds like I’m willing it to ring.
Nothing.