Standing in the middle of the apartment, I look at the full bags, the boxes, and my second suitcase full of clothing. I feel accomplished … until I realize there is nowhere to put them all. My car, a red Mazda Miata, won’t hold everything. Certainly not my furniture.

Setting down the packing tape, I grab my phone off the table as the message alert sets off again.

Ralph …

I don’t even bother to read the message. Instead, I look at the time to see how long I have before I need to get the hell out of here before he returns.

I hate asking for help. Hate. It. But looking around, I clearly have no choice.

I scroll through my favorites list on my phone and hit Nikki’s name.

Nikolette O’Donnell is one of my oldest and dearest friends. She is also very well connected.

She answers her phone immediately. “Paige, how are you?”

“I’m good.”

She’s silent for a moment, then, “I know that tone. Is it Ralph?”

With Laney in Italy and Melyssa … tied up most of the damn time, Nikki has been the one I’ve turned to the most this past year in regards to my dating failures.

I sigh. “Yes and no.”

“Explain.”

“I left my job today,” I tell her. “Well, first I got my own campaign, and then I kind of sort of quit.”

“Wait. Slow down and start over.”

* * *

Five hours later, I have everything I need in my car, the movers have my things in a van, and Nikki has convinced me to go to Italy, like I have wanted to for years. Now I am driving to Laney’s sister-in-law, my newest friend, and one of the strongest women I have ever met, Valentina’s home in New Jersey. Then I will fly my first transatlantic flight, where I will spend however fucking long I want with my friends … finally.

Nine years ago, Valentina Segretti’s bodyguard turned lover, Franco, shot and killed a man who sexually abused her when she was younger. For nine years, she waited for Franco: the man she loved, the father of her twin girls, who refused to see her while being incarcerated for his crime. Because of that, he didn’t know about the girls until just a couple days ago when he was released from prison, just before being extradited to Italy. He refused the help she could afford, and then he left her … again. His excuse was to keep her safe. Knowing Valentina, she won’t allow it for long.

Me, I want to castrate him. Hell, I just might hunt him down and do just that.

I reach up and hit my car radio while I sit unmoving in rush hour traffic, trying to get the hell out of the city, a place I once loved and now loathe, to try to get my head on straight.

By the time I get to Valentina’s, I have had enough audio therapy from listening to Taylor Swift, which has helped me lessen the amount of self-loathing I have allowed myself to feel based on the choices in men I have made this past year. And I have listened to enough country top one hundred songs that I know I’m not alone in the world with man troubles. I clearly handled it better than Carrie Underwood in her cheating lover song. So, essentially, I’m feeling empowered and definitely have zero desire in allowing myself to daydream about an Italian vacation where I find the man of my dreams, like I had in the past.

I am woman! Hear me fucking roar!

I open the door, wondering how to say roar in Italian. Then I hit the key fob to pop the trunk open.

While I drag my suitcase out of the trunk, I hear my name being called and turn.

Valentina.

She is just a few inches shorter than I; has a very full head of black, wavy hair; the perfect curves; and is simply gorgeous. No, she is stunning. No … both.

Then … Then I see him.

Vincent, her current bodyguard, also known as the star of every erotic dream, fantasy, and yes, the man I picture when I’m solo and need to get there in a hurry.

The man is exquisite to look at. His jet black, silky locks have gotten longer on top than last I saw him, framing his godlike face, the natural wave unruly, just like I imagine he is in bed. It’s sexier than Marlon Teixeira’s in the Dior Homme campaign. Perfect for grabbing ahold of when you feel like the climax may literally blast you to a place you couldn’t possibly come back from. His eyebrows are thick and untouched, unlike so, so many men these days. Manly. So fucking manly.

His eyes are dark, nearly black, and scream desire. Most men’s eyes only look like that when they are about to have sex. His are like that all the damn time. A hint of anger plays in their depths, and again, the idea of sex with him is enough to make your core spasm and knees clench. I have no doubt sex with him would ruin a woman.

His lips are lusher than Jon Kortajarena’s, who was in campaigns for Versace, Tom Ford, and Guess. The bone structure is no less panty-melting. Cheeks rivalling Sean Opry, one of my favorite faces of Calvin Klein. I suspect under the suits he wears, giving him a David Gandy, Dolce & Gabbana sex appeal, lies the body of Matthew Perry—my favorite ass and also from a CK campaign. His tall, powerfully lean body is enough to make any human being, straight, gay, or indifferent, do a double—no, triple—take.

He is the perfect man to get any woman over a year’s worth of failed relationships, but he is totally and completely uninterested in women like me. As a matter of fact, he told me so … twice.

God, I hate him, and I want him.

No, no, no! I yell at myself.

And now he’s walking toward me. But today, he’s not wearing a suit. No, Vincent Stratos is wearing a white V-neck that clings to his beautiful body and a pair of relaxed-fit, light-colored denim jeans that hang low on his narrow hips, held up by a brown leather belt …

And I think I may have just came.

As he nears, I look away, not wanting him to ever see me lusting after him again.

When he reaches for my bag, I snap. The entire weight of the day, of feeling like I am not enough—not enough for Ralph, not enough to run anything more than a fucking douche campaign, and not enough for a man like him—is finally too heavy to continue to carry.

I look at him to find he is looking at me, eyes starting at my heels and slowly making his way up my body, judging me.

“What do I look like? A fucking project?”

When he raises his dark brows and the corner of that sinful-looking mouth, I am on fire … again.

Extinguish. Now.

“Do you think I can’t carry my own bag?” I turn my back to him, hurrying toward Valentina and away from the sex god who wants nothing to do with a woman like me.

Valentina begins walking toward me as I yank on the suitcase and it yanks me.

I feel his hand on the small of my back, stopping me from falling, and I arch my back at the connection. Damn it!

I yank the bag harder now, and it again jerks me and flips.

“Paige, is everything okay?” Valentina asks.

“I quit!” I nearly yell as I attempt to right my bag.

When Vincent attempts to fix it, I literally growl at him then look away because, yes, I’m embarrassed. But I don’t need him, so I make damn sure he knows it.

“Assholes! All of you, penis-toting morons!”

Valentina grabs my hands and pulls me toward her, telling him, “Get her bag, please.”

“Me, or my penis?” he mutters, shocking me.

“You don’t want to push me,” I snarl at him, and his penis.

“Okay, come with me.” Valentina’s steps quicken as she pulls me into her home. “Tell me what the problem is.”

“Douche is the problem. DOUCHE!”

“Okay, well, I don’t understand what—”

I kick off my shoes and hurry toward her couch where I grab the blanket off the back and cover myself in its warmth. “My first solo campaign, and they give me a douche, so I quit. I quit, and I’m going to Italy. I quit my job, I quit life, and I quit America!”

“I see,” she says as she sits next to me.

“Melyssa and Sabato are in Italy, Laney is in Italy, you’re going to Italy, and I’m going to rot here alone.”

“Nikki is here.” She smiles, pushing a lock of my hair away from my face.

“Tied to a damn bed, I bet.” I pout, crossing my arms over my chest and look at her. “I’m going for real this time. No men will stop me, and no damn douche campaign will either.” Realizing she is going through more than I am with the Franco situation, I add, “And I’m going to support you, of course.”

She smiles. “Of course.” Then she stands up and asks, “Wine?”

“Yeah.” I begin to stand, but she stops me.

“Sit. Relax. I’ll be right back.”

“You should be relaxing. My relationship issues are nothing, Valentina, just stupid mistakes.”

“I won’t disagree.” She smiles and shrugs. “I promise you, when the right one comes along, you’ll know. That’s not your biggest heartbreak today, though, is it?”

When I shake my head, she gives me a knowing look.

“I’ll be right back.”

When she leaves the room, I stand and walk to the fireplace and look at the pictures above the mantel. Pictures of her beautiful daughters surrounding a massive picture of her and Franco. His face is turned away, but the look on hers, the smile, the comfort in their embrace, it could be no other.

“He’s beautiful, yes?”

I look back at her as she hands me a glass of red wine. “Not as beautiful as you.” I hold my glass out and tap it to hers.

“Ah, but he is more so.” She takes a big drink of her wine then walks back to the couch. I follow, sitting next to her, watching as she stares off, deep in thought.

Breaking the silence, I ask, “What will you do next?”

She smiles as she twirls her wine in her glass. “I’ll live for our girls. I’ll love for them. And I’ll wait until he comes for me. If—”

“He’s going to come around, Valentina.”

“Hmm.” She sits back and sips her wine.

“If he has half the love for you that you do for him, he will.”

Silence.

“He—”

“Let’s talk about you,” she interrupts. “About that place you’ve wasted your talent at for years and how Steel would be lucky to have you. I know they’ve offered.”

I now take a sip of my wine. “I started with Cheryl.”

“Your loyalty is honorable, yet …” She smiles and shakes her head.

“Skewed,” I finish for her.

She laughs and nods. “Yes, skewed.”

“I wanted to do it based on merit and hard work.”

“And now?”

“Now I want to throat punch her and nut chop that asshole Johnson.”

“Johnson?”

Over two more glasses of wine, I tell her the same story I told Nikki earlier, all of it, including the part where I caught Ralph. Then we both end up laughing so hard we have tears running down our cheeks.

“I get it now,” she says as she wipes hers away.

“Get what?”

“The men you fell for; you didn’t love them.”

“I thought I did,” I say, wiping my own mirthful tears away.

She takes her phone from the end table and scrolls through my Instagram account. “Look at the way you look at them.”

I look them over and make a mental note to take them all down.

I shake my head. “I can’t believe all four fallings are still on my page.”

“I can’t believe how you thought this was love.” She then scrolls down more. “Now look at you at work.”

I look at pictures of me standing with my team after successful ad campaigns, at dinners, at the pictures of products I pitched so hard I sold myself on.

“That, Paige, that is love.”

I cock my head and look at her, needing more explanation.

“You’ve spent the better part of nine years nurturing and growing your career like we have our children. Your work brings you joy. Imagine working for a company that gives a damn about you.”

“I don’t want to work for friends. I don’t want a gold star for everything I do. That wouldn’t drive me, challenge me.” I shake my head.

“Then another firm?”

“I thought working for a woman would’ve evened out the playing field. Now I know it’ll be the same wherever I go.” I sigh. “God, I just want to earn my place. To become a senior executive, and then maybe … I don’t know.” I sigh again.

“I think you’ll have plenty of time in Italy to figure it out. Life slows down at the vineyard. It’s calming, peaceful, and—”

“Intoxicating is the word I’m looking for, Valentina.” I grin.

She laughs then holds up her empty glass. “There is certainly plenty of wine. Would you like another?”

“No, thank you. I had two more than my norm. My head is already lighter.”

“Your worries, as well?”

“Yours?”

She nods. “Everything will be fine.”

She looks tired, and I feel like I have made her even more so.

I nod. “I’m sure it will be,” I agree then look around, “I think I’d like a shower and some sleep before starting my dream vacation with my dream girls.”

She nods. “You know where your room is.”

* * *

Standing under the shower, water pours over me from above, back, and front. I close my eyes and let the pressure and heat ease my aching muscles that, until now, I didn’t realize were aching. Then I grab the shampoo and lather up my hair before rinsing it while singing a song that always makes me feel better. Afterward, I put in some conditioner, and then wash my body as I wait for the conditioner to do its job. Rinsing off, I step out and grab a towel to wrap my hair then another to wrap my body.

Realizing I didn’t get my bag so I don’t have any clean clothes, I look at myself in the mirror. The towel just covers my private parts.

Sighing as I towel dry my hair and realize I didn’t rinse the conditioner. I decide I’ll shower it out, after I find my suitcase. I then drape the towel I used on my hair over the towel bar to use when I return.

Walking out of the bathroom and into the guest room, I see my phone lit up. I walk over and grab it off the bed, seeing the picture of Ralph and me that he put into his contact information. Knowing I can’t avoid it forever, I answer.

“It’s late,” I tell him.

“Where the hell are you?” he snaps back.

“That’s not really any of your business.”

“Well, I can’t sleep.” He pauses then sighs. “I can’t sleep without knowing where you are.”

“I left the bed; you should be able to sleep just fine.” I roll my eyes at him, although he can’t see me.

“You took …” He pauses again, and I wonder how the hell he functions as a lawyer if he can’t get through one sentence without … pausing.

I open the bedroom door and look up and down the hall as I slowly creep out in search of my suitcase.

“Your things,” he finally finishes.

“My shoes, my bags, my fucking underwear,” I whisper-hiss as I walk down the hall toward the living room, hoping to find my suitcase there.

“We can work through this. Now that you know what I like, we can definitely—”

“You wanna know what I like, Ralph?” I don’t wait for an answer. “I like to know I can trust someone.”

“You can trust me, Paige.”

“I like a man to be a man, and not wear my shoes!”

“I’ll buy you a hundred pair,” he says a matter-of-factly.

“Why don’t you just buy your own, Ralph?”

“I like wearing yours,” he admits.

“Well, they don’t like you wearing them, and neither do my fucking panties!”

Panties, I just want to find my fucking panties.

I walk into the entry, but my bag isn’t there either.

“Dammit,” I sigh.

“We can work through this.”

God, this is infuriating.

“Ralph, we’re done. Stop calling. Stop messaging. Just stop.”

“But I love you,” he insists.

“Well, I love me, too.” I hang up then stomp toward the kitchen as I look down at my phone, hitting decline when he immediately calls back.

“I hate men,” I grumble, looking up from the phone.

I gasp and cover my mouth when I see Vincent leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee.

When he looks at my feet, I know damn well he heard everything I said. This is so embarrassing.

To diffuse, I become the warrior princess. Okay, in this case, I become the bitch I know how to be.

“You like shoes, too? Sorry. I don’t share.”

He doesn’t say one damn word. He just looks up the length of my body, even slower than earlier.

I attempt to grip the towel tighter to my chest … and find there is no towel.

“What is wrong with you?” I snap at him as he looks into my eyes. I grab the towel that has apparently fallen off my body and onto the floor and quickly wrap it around myself. “Do you sneak around here all the time?”

He narrows his eyes slightly, yet he still doesn’t say a word.

“Where’s my bag?” I snap.

He points to the left of me.

“Couldn’t have brought it to the guest room?” I huff as I drag it behind me, clenching the towel as if it’s the last floatation device on the fucking Titanic.

I look back at him. “Do you have nothing to say?”

“Your tits are huge.” He quirks an eyebrow then turns his back to me.

“You’re an asshole,” I smart back then turn and try to calmly walk away.

But how can I? That man, Vincent, the object of my darkest desires and dirtiest dreams, the same man who I have clearly come on to when I was drunk before, and who has turned me down … twice, just saw all five-feet and ten-inches of my big girl bod, completely and totally bare.

I may die.