The hotel is stunning. With views I’ve only seen on a postcard.
We’re on the top floor—penthouse. Like Richard Gere in Pretty Woman, Drew is a big believer in “only the best.”
It’s late when we get in, but after a nap on the plane, we’re both wired. Energized.
All the airlines are cutting back these days, even in first class.
The sandwiches may be complimentary, but that doesn’t mean they’re edible.
While Drew is in the shower, I start to unpack. Why aren’t we showering together? I really don’t need to answer that, do I?
I put the bags on the bed and open them. Most men look at an empty suitcase like it’s some kind of physics equation—they can stare at it for hours, but still have no frigging clue what they’re supposed to do with it.
But not Drew.
he’s Mr. I-Think-of-Everything.
he packed all the incidentals that most men wouldn’t think of. Everything I’ll need to make my vacation comfortable and fun.
Except for underwear. There isn’t a single pair of underwear in this entire suitcase.
And it’s not an oversight.
My boyfriend happens to hold a serious grudge against undergarments. If he had his way, we’d both be walking around like Adam and Eve—minus the fig leaves, of course.
But he did bring the rest of the essentials. Deodorant, shaving cream, a razor, makeup, birth control pills, moisturizer, the rest of my antibiotic for the ear infection I had last week, eye cream—and so on.
And we should pause here, for a brief public service announcement.
I have a few clients who are in the pharmaceutical field. And those companies have whole departments whose sole job is writing.
Writing what, you ask? You know those little inserts that come with your prescription? The ones that list every possible side effect and what you should do, should any of them occur? May cause drowsiness, don’t operate large machinery, contact doctor immediately, blah blah blah.
Most of us just open the little paper bag, take out our pills, and throw the insert away. Most of us do . . . but we shouldn’t. I’m not going to bore you with a lecture. All I’ll say at the moment is: Read the insert. You’ll be glad you did.
And now—back to Mexico.
Drew walks out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, and I forget all about the suitcase. You know how some men are boob guys, or ass guys? It works the same for women. I’m a forearm girl, myself. There’s something about a man’s forearms that’s just . . . hot. Masculine—in a manly man kind of way.
Drew has the finest set I’ve ever seen. Tight and toned—not too bulky, not too thin—with just the right amount of hair.
he removes the towel from his hips and rubs it over his shoulders. And I’m pretty sure I start to drool.
Maybe I’m an ass woman after all.
“You know it’s impolite to stare.”
I drag my eyes up to his. he’s smiling. And I take a step toward him—like a cougar closing in on her prey.
“Is it, now?”
Drew licks his lips. “Definitely.” A drop of water slides down the middle of his chest.
Anyone else thirsty?
“Well, I don’t want to be rude.”
Just as I’m about to lean down and lick the droplet off him, my stomach growls. Loudly.
Drew laughs. “Maybe I should feed you first. For what I have planned, you’re going to need some energy.”
I bite my lip in anticipation. “You have something planned?”
“For you? Always.”
he spins me around and slaps me on the rear. “Now get that delectable ass in the shower so we can go. The sooner we eat, the quicker we can come back here and f**k till the sun comes up.”
he really doesn’t mean to be as crude as he sounds.
Yeah—you’re right—he probably does.
An hour later, we’re on our way to dinner. Drew surprised me with a new dress—white eyelet and strapless, with a hem that flares out just above my knee. My hair is down with a slight curl, the way I know he loves it.
As for my boyfriend—I can’t take my eyes off him. Tan slacks and a crisp white shirt, the top few buttons open, the sleeves rolled up halfway.
We arrive at the restaurant.
I’ve always thought the Latino culture was interesting. The music. The people. They’re vibrant. Volatile.
All words that describe where we’re dining tonight. It’s dim—the only illumination comes from the candles on the tables and the twinkling lights on the ceiling. A pulsing rhythm emanates from a small band of musicians in the corner.
Drew requests in Spanish a table for two.
Yes—he speaks Spanish. And French. he’s working on Japanese. Did you think his voice was sexy? Trust me—until you’ve heard him whisper blush-worthy phrases in a foreign language, you don’t know the meaning of the word sexy.
We follow the robust, dark-haired hostess to a table in the corner.
Now, take a moment to look around. See all the female attention Drew gets, just by walking through the room? The appreciative glances, the inviting eyes?
I notice—I always do.
But here’s the thing: Drew doesn’t. Because he’s not looking.
At any of them.
For you guys out there who think looking doesn’t hurt? You’re wrong. Because we women don’t think you’re just enjoying the view. We think you’re comparing, finding us lacking. And that stings. Like a paper cut on your eyeball.
I’m fully aware that Drew could have any woman he wants— the model in Beverly hills, the heiress on Park Avenue. But he picked me. he fought for me. So when we go out, it’s a major boost to my confidence.
Because I’m the only woman he’s looking at.
We sit at the table and scan the menus. “So explain to me again how you made it through college and business school without ever drinking straight tequila?”
I laugh at the question, remembering. “Well, back in high school, we’d have these bonfires—campouts.”
You ever sleep with an empty two-liter soda bottle for a pillow?
It’s not fun.
“So one night, Billy and the guys were drinking tequila—and Billy swallowed the worm. And then he started to hallucinate. We were working on amphibian anatomy in bio at the time, and as messed up as he was, Billy was convinced he was a frog—and that Delores was trying to dissect him. he hopped off into the woods by himself, and it took us three hours to find him—with his tongue in the dirt. “I’ve been hesitant to try tequila ever since.”