I tap my nails against the glass of iced coffee. Condensation wets my fingers and runs down the side to pools in a ring around the glass. My eyes dart around—every movement on the street could be him. Every tall, dark-haired man makes me jump. Even the ones who aren’t so tall, or so handsome. My heart still skips a beat whenever anyone who looks even remotely like him strides past the windows. Whenever the door opens I turn my head. It might be him. It just might be.

But it isn’t.

I can just see the look on Kylie’s face when I tell her I sat around in Costa, waiting for a man who clearly had no intention of ever seeing me again.

Yes, that would go over really well.

My chest hurts. A deep, stinging pain that only gets worse with every minute that passes. Every tick of the clock feels like another second of my life gone. Last night comes back to me like scenes on a reel of film. His smile. The way he looked at me. The way he laughed at himself. The electricity of his touch. The way my breath caught when he swept me off my feet—literally—and carried me to the bedroom. The look in his eyes when I woke up the next morning. The way my heart pounded double time when he told me he wanted to see me again.

The images play like a movie I can’t stop. I wish I could stop it. It’s hell—the memories don’t bring pleasure or fill me with a secret joy like they did all day. Now they’re a reproach. The reminder of what an idiot I was to believe him.

And yet, I keep hoping.

Craning my neck whenever the door opens. When it doesn’t turn out to be him, my heart sinks further and further. I know I can’t sit here all night, waiting, but … just a little while more.

As the night moves on I feel the eyes of the wait staff watching me, pitying me. They’ve probably seen dozens of girls like me, maybe hundreds. Walking in with their heads high, all dolled up in their best clothes, their hair and makeup much nicer than they’d wear it if they were meeting up with just friends. Checking their reflection, self-consciously looking up every time the door opens. Just about radiating anticipation.

Until enough time passes. Until anticipation turns to embarrassment, then despair. And all the while, they try to keep up a brave front because they are in public. They can’t let anybody see them fall apart, even though falling apart is the one thing they are going through. What a pathetic fool I was to be roped in by a good-looking face.

I cringe to think that I was so easy.

The staff are roping off sections without customers. They are about to close shop. Some of them look in my direction. They want me to go.

The nasty, taunting voice in my head starts a monologue. Kylie was right. What were you thinking? A man like him is not for you. This was bound to happen. Better now than later. It was just a one-night stand. It’s life. Every night millions of men and women all over the world are doing it and walking away.

I stand suddenly. I have to get out of here. My cheeks are burning, there’s a tightness in my chest. It feels as if I’ll explode if I stay here a second longer.

“Goodnight,” one of the waitresses says as I walk to the door. There’s sympathy in her eyes. Like she wants me to know I’m not the only one who’s ever been through this. Strangely enough, my pride kicks in. I don’t need her sympathy. I’m not hurt. So what if I made a complete fool of myself by sleeping with a man who is known to be a Casanova, and actually expected him to show up for lunch after he got what he wanted.

“It looks as though my meeting got canceled without my knowing about it.” I manage to smile. “Goodnight.”

She’s diplomatic enough to pretend she believes me. Nodding politely, she walks away. Tears of shame burn behind my eyes. She knows. They all know. Thank god I’ll never be coming here again. I hurry out, careful to avoid eye contact as I go. I wish I’d never come. I wish … God, I wish … I wish he had just turned up.

I can’t go back to the apartment just yet. The thought of sitting with my friends for the rest of the night enduring their pitying glances … it’s too much to even think about. How they will laugh at me. Saving my virginity all these years and dropping it into the lap of the worst kind of skirt-chaser. I look back and forth down the street. A taxi stops. I get in and to my shock I ask the driver to take me to his hotel.

I walk through the lobby, and up to the reception. A woman in a navy suit smiles professionally.

“I’d like to speak to Tyson Eden, please,’ I say, meeting her in the eye.

She frowns. “Monsieur Eden? I … um … let me check.” She looks down at her computer screen and taps at a few keys. She looks up shaking her head. ‘Sorry, Mademoiselle, but Monsieur Eden checked out this morning.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“Yes, he checked out at eleven o’clock.” She shrugs. “Sorry.”

For a second I stare at her blankly. He checked out. So even that story about going to see his friend was bullshit. My mind refuses to believe it. I cling on to the last bit of hope. “Did he leave a message for me?”

She shakes her head slowly, her eyes pitying. “No, sorry. He did not leave a message for anyone. If he had there would be a notice in the notes section.”

I nod and, turning around, head out of the hotel. My mind is blank as I walk the streets of Paris for ages. Even when it starts raining I don’t stop walking. There I was, thinking I was smart. I wouldn’t ever get roped in by a handsome face or a charming smile. Holding myself above all the poor, silly girls who let men take advantage of them. What did I think made me so special, so smart? I was clearly wrong. I was wrong about so many things.

I think back to how happy I was only a few hours ago, how I spent the whole day smiling and giggling to myself like I was the keeper of the most wonderful secret in the whole wide world. I feel so lost and hurt. A single tear rolls down my cheek and I knuckle it away.

I stop at the corner to wait for traffic to rush past and it hits me that something might have happened to him. My breath catches. All these cars racing past. What if he got hit on his way to Louis? Or had an accident? Maybe I should call up the hospital to see if he was admitted? No, that’s stupid. He checked out of the hotel. What if he had to go home for something, like an emergency? That’s surely possible.

A tiny flicker of hope sparks to life in my heart, but I put it out right away. Then why didn’t he leave a message for me at the hotel?