The Waiter Bradleigh Collins (autobiographies to read TXT) 📖

was about to end. And it wasn’t even the sex that I was going to miss the most. I mean, the sex was incredible. But falling asleep in his arms, waking up with him spooning me, hell, even brushing our teeth together in the morning...those were the moments I was already missing. And he wasn’t even gone.

I sat down on one of the chairs at the suite’s high-top table overlooking the rink. The Waiter stood behind me with his arms around my shoulders, leaning in close and explaining everything that was happening on the ice. There were fights and power plays and something called icing that had nothing to do with a cake. It was exciting and exhilarating, and for an hour or so, I forgot about California. Tonight was all New York.

When we left The Garden, the Rangers had won. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had lost.

CHAPTER 34

◆◆◆

My Friday night flight landed at LAX at ten, which was one in the morning for me. I was exhausted, but I quickly got my second wind when I exited the jetway and saw The Waiter standing there.

“You have a tan!” I said hugging him.

“It’s L.A., Red. What did you expect?” He kissed me. “God, I’ve missed these lips.”

“I missed you too. Where’s Nick?”

“He’s out with some of his L.A. friends tonight. You’ll see him tomorrow.” He took my carry-on from me and we headed out of the terminal, hand-in-hand. “How was the flight?”

“Long.”

“Were you able to get any work done?”

“A ton, actually.”

I spent the entire five-hour flight writing and editing a series of articles that would post on the e-Styled website in March. I was way ahead of schedule as far my editorial calendar was concerned, and that felt great. After The Waiter left for California on Sunday, I focused completely on work, staying late at the office every night except Wednesday, when Lucy and Katie insisted I meet them for dinner at Tortilla Flats. I’m pretty sure they were just performing a wellness check to make sure I wasn’t suicidal.

“How’s California treating you?” I asked The Waiter.

“Good. Wait ‘til you see my view.”

He’d called me on Sunday and told me about the corporate apartments they had set up for him and Nick in Santa Monica. Apparently, his new place was three times the size of our apartment and had a large balcony with a view of the Pacific Ocean. Our apartment in Manhattan had a fire escape with a view of the elevated subway.

“In addition to the view, I also have a bottle of wine with your name on it,” he said.

“This is the best airport pickup ever!” When we stepped outside of the terminal, I stepped out of my coat. “I guess I won’t be needing this for the rest of the weekend.”

“No you won’t,” The Waiter replied as he escorted me to his rental car. “It’s gonna be in the sixties. I hope you brought some non-New York clothes.”

All I had were New York clothes. I did manage to pack some sleeveless dresses and sandals, but they were still very New York. It was twenty-three degrees when I left the office for the airport today, so I arrived in L.A. in black leather pants, a black cashmere turtleneck, and a black wool coat. Oh, and black boots. I looked like Johnny Cash.

“Welcome to Los Angeles,” the sign said as we drove out of the airport. Fuck Los Angeles. She was trying to steal my man, with her warm sunny weather and big apartments with balconies and ocean views. Though I have to admit, when we arrived at his apartment and I stood on that balcony, glass of wine in-hand, I was impressed. The sound of the waves crashing onto the shore. The moonlight shining down on the ocean. The warm breeze that felt amazing now that I’d changed into one of my little black dresses. The Waiter had his arms around my waist and his lips on my neck as I stared out at the ocean. I could definitely picture a life here with him. A much more laid-back, less stressful life than what I had in New York.

“It really is beautiful here,” I said.

“You’re beautiful here. You’re beautiful everywhere.”

God, I loved this man.

“Come on.” I took him by the hand and led him back inside towards the bedroom. “We’ve got a week to make up for.”

Sex with The Waiter was always intense, but tonight was even more so. I was trying to hold on to every single touch, every single kiss, every single second. Even though I had one more night with him before I flew back to New York, I knew that it might be awhile before I saw him again. Like a Buddhist monk, I was living in the moment. Of course, I realize that Buddhist monks aren’t having sex and trying to mentally record every detail. But I was.

The next morning, I woke up cradled in The Waiter’s arms. I looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was only six-thirty. But I was still on New York time. I snuck out of bed and into the bathroom. I grabbed The Waiter’s robe from the back of the door and put it on. Then I went into the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. It was still dark outside. We had plans to meet Nick for lunch and then take a tour of the new gym. I was both looking forward to and dreading it at the same time. I had to pretend to be happy for them even though this whole deal was tearing me apart.

I made myself a cup of coffee and went outside on the balcony. I stared out at the ocean as the sun began to rise, weighing my options. Actually, my options were weighing on me. It was a no-win situation. Heads. I give up my job and my friends in New York and move to California. I lose. Tails. I stay in New