military history, and their infusion of capital and energy in the entertainment industry in St. Martin. I wouldn’t sexualize them or capitalize on their obvious appeal. I was a travel writer. I wrote about travel, places to go and things to do while you were there. Not who to ogle and how they were in bed. I was never so tacky. I glanced over my notes hoping for some objective observations. I wanted to find some kind of simple way to describe him that would leap out of the list the way wild and fun-loving characterized Tommy or stern and determined took care of Connor, but I knew descriptions like “handsome” and “has a magnificent dick” were not suitable for publication. Unless I wanted to be the laughingstock of travel journalism and get fired before I had a chance to finish saving to strike out on my own, referring to him as Please-Fuck-Me-Billy-O’Shea was out of the question. Even though he’d made me beg last night, and I’d loved it.
I got up and refilled my water glass and did an hour of actual work on my article that didn’t involved any of Billy’s anatomy. I even managed to talk about the pit stop at the frozen lemonade place without mentioning how much I’d like to drip that slushy tart ice on his abs and lick it off. Like that’s what I want for my birthday, for every birthday for the rest of my life. Everything I wanted to do for the rest of the time I had on St. Martin was him. He was what I wanted for as long as I could have him. He made my mouth water. Made me go wet between my legs. I wanted to repeat that hike we went on, only this time I wanted him to back me up against one of those big trees and take me that way. I wanted to go to my knees on the soft moss of the forest floor and make him cry out my name.
I fumbled for my phone. I was going to have to call him and tell him I was looking forward to seeing him later. There was no harm in that, in letting him know I’d been thinking about him and I was eager to be together again. Maybe a little banter and innuendo on the phone, maybe just enough to let him know I could barely keep my hands out of my shorts just remembering what we’d done together. I waited for the facial recognition to register, wondering if the phone would even know me with this big smile on my face. Then I went to tap in his number when I saw I had a text from him.
Maybe it would be “I crave you.”
Maybe it would be “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Maybe it would be “can’t wait to see you.”
I tapped it excitedly.
Sorry have to cancel tonite. Call u soon.
Cancelled? Call me soon? The fuck? I dropped the phone on the table in disgust. I wasn’t the kind of woman who read too much into everything and analyzed men. But I also wasn’t stupid enough to think something important had really come up. If it had, he would have told me what it was and tried to see me later. Nope. I was being blown off after the greatest night of my life.
I called Maggie, “Hey,” I said.
“That’s a sad hey.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine. Bored as hell. How about you? Is St. Martin so beautiful it’s depressing you?”
“No.”
“What is it?”
“Billy blew me off. We spent the night together, and it was—really good. Beyond really good. Imagine whatever superlative you want. Imagine Cardi B lyrics coming true, okay? And we were supposed to see each other tonight and this is the text I just got—'have to cancel tonight call you soon.’ Yeah. That’s not promising,” I said ruefully, trying not to sound as hurt as I felt.
“Uh oh. Did you catch feelings? Morgan, you better take your temp because you’re coming down with a bad case of summer love,” she crowed.
“Oh hush it,” I hissed at her, making her laugh. “No, I did not catch feelings at all,” I said, suspicious that I was lying even when I said it.
“It sounds to me like you did, and like he had a panic attack over it.”
“He did not have a panic attack. Besides no one has feelings for anyone. Other than disappointment. Well, technically I had euphoria and then disappointment. Which is