Page 51 of Learning to Trust

DAVID

It had been three days since my evening out with Andrew and I’d been missing him like hell. I’d heard his truck coming in late and leaving again at first light, his days were long as he’d warned.

When I heard the sound of his truck and the rattle of a garage door rising and falling, excitement flooded my belly knowing he was home early. Pulling a lasagne from the freezer, I put it in the oven to heat and tossed together a garden salad. Hopefully, Andrew would appreciate me making dinner for him. While I waited for the lasagne to heat, I went upstairs, showered, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a light blue polo shirt.

After shutting down my computer and shoving the laptop back in its bag, I pulled a cooler bag from the pantry, added the salad and four beers, grabbed the lasagne from the oven, and using oven mitts, lowered it into a warming bag.

While locking the house, a blue Maserati parked in front of Andrew's home caught my eye. I wondered who it belonged to and hesitated about my plan to have dinner with Andrew. There was enough food to accommodate at least another two people, so I continued over to the house.

Stepping up to the door, I knocked and pasted a smile on my face as it opened. The smile disappeared as ice-cold fingers of reality sliced down my spine.

Peter Romani had opened the door, bare-chested, wet, and with a towel around his waist.

“Peter, who’s—” Andrew appeared in the foyer and paled when he saw it was me who had caught them out.

I shoved the bags of food at Peter and dashed back to my place, unlocking, and slamming the door before going upstairs.

Andrew banged on the door, demanding I allow him in—like that was going to happen. Dragging a suitcase from the walk-in closet, I threw in a bunch of clothes and shoes, deciding to buy toiletries later. The entire time I packed, a voice went on and on about how stupid I'd been to think I could trust again. What was it about me that men I hooked up with felt an overwhelming need to look elsewhere? Was I really so pathetic? On the way to my car in the garage, I snatched up my laptop and put both in the trunk.

When the door raised, Andrew came to the driver's window and banged on the glass. I gave him the middle finger and he jumped back as I reversed, for a moment I thought he'd refuse to leave my garage, but when the door began lowering, he ducked beneath and onto the driveway. A look of agony crossed his face as I backed away. Agony about being caught most fucking likely. I drove away, and glancing into the rearview mirror, saw Andrew standing with his hands on his hips. I hoped it would be the last time I ever laid eyes on the bastard.

***

I’d been lucky to get a first-class flight to my preferred destination and settled back in a seat of the Virgin Atlantic aircraft that would take me to London. In seven hours’ time, I’d be a continent away from the cheating bastard I’d considered a good friend even though we hadn’t known each other for very long.

The ticket I'd booked had an open return as I wasn't sure how long I would stay. London was a city I loved and a good place to lick my wounds and assess the future. If it wasn't for Janice and her family, I would relocate to the city and leave all the bad memories far behind.

I attempted to read as we hurtled across the sky but thoughts of Andrew and anger at my misjudgment once again prevented me from focusing. I'd honestly believed he was a good man, someone I could finally trust. Well, there was no need for it to be chiseled into my brain anymore—I'd finally gotten the message—men were untrustworthy, they used you for their own purpose, and once done, you were tossed away for the next pretty face. Women were so much more intelligent. They had worked this fact out long ago.

I dozed on and off until the seatbelt sign illuminated, and the captain informed us we were descending into Heathrow on a cold but fine winter's day.

The landing was smooth and in minutes we were being ushered over the airbridge to the first-class luggage collection area. While I waited for the suitcase, I switched on my cell. It lit up like a Christmas tree with dozens of messages, ironic since the holiday was only two weeks away. There were thirty-two messages from Andrew, I deleted them without reading whatever bullshit he wanted to spout. Nothing he could say would have me forgiving the prick. Eleven messages were from Janice. Andrew had probably contacted her to ask where I'd gone. I felt guilty that she was probably frantic with worry. After dragging my case off the carousel, I made my way to a quiet area and dialed my sister's number. It was six in the morning in London, one in the middle of the night in New York, but she would be awake, worrying about when I'd call.

“David, where the fuck are you? Andrew has been calling me every half an hour, he’s worried sick.”

“Hello to you too. I’m in London and Andrew can get fucked. Oh wait, he’s probably fucking his piece on the side.”

“David, Andrew told me what happened, it’s not what you think.”

So, he’d managed to spill bullshit to my sister, and she’d believed what he had to say. Well, no thank you, I wasn’t falling for any man’s lies ever again.

“Janice, I’m okay but I probably won’t be back for a few weeks, maybe months. Cancel the launch and anything else you had scheduled. I need time to think. I’ll call you at Christmas, give the kids a hug for me and say hi to Steve. Love you, Bye.”

I disconnected the call, I'd said what was needed. Now I needed time to plan the direction of my future. Switching the phone off, I headed to the taxi rank and climbed into a waiting car after putting my case and laptop in the trunk. He was instructed to take me to The Dorchester Hotel on Park Lane where I'd reserved the penthouse suite that I'd stayed in last time I had visited.

Traffic was heavy, people were heading into the city to start their day at work or last-minute shopping for Christmas. The drive to the hotel was slow, giving me the time to familiarize myself with sites I hadn't seen for some time.

The driver pulled up to the hotel entrance. I paid him, adding a decent tip before a young man stepped forward, opened my door, and accepted the luggage the driver had pulled from the trunk. I accompanied him as he carried both my suitcase and laptop bag to the VIP check-in area of reception. My credit card was handed over, details recorded, and I was given the pass key to the suite. The young man, whose name was Aaron, accompanied me in the lift to the top floor where my home for the next few weeks was located. After tipping him, he left, closing the door with a soft click.

I crossed the living area, pushed aside the thick velvet curtains, unlocked the polished wood French doors, and stepped out onto the terrace. The views over Hyde Park and London were breathtaking as always and for the first time since leaving New York, I was able to take a deep breath. The terrace would be the ideal space to sit and work on Eyely in between sightseeing.

Returning indoors, I wheeled my suitcase into the bedroom and unpacked everything into the walk-in closet before leaving the case tucked away in the corner.

The suite had a contemporary feel. Velvet, linen, leather, silk, and marble all came together in tasteful elegance.

Tired after the flight and worn out mentally, I settled on a hot shower in the stunning black and white marble bathroom that included a spa bath. I pictured myself relaxing in warm water, the scent of oils wafting in the air, soothing tired muscles. But for now, a shower and nap were my priority.

***