Page 118 of Titus

“That’s an interesting greeting,” Wyatt said, laughing into his bourbon.

“I’ll survive,” I answered ignoring the bullshit remarks.

“No.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You genuinely look bored.”

I took a slow sip of bourbon instead of answering.

Because bored wasn’t entirely accurate. I felt more starved than anything, and not for food. For something more than just performance and fake smiles. I craved genuine conversation and laughter.

And without warning, she invaded my mental space again. Suddenly, all I could picture was Catalina sitting across from me at that ridiculous fish shack in Newport, laughing while stealing fries off my plate.

“You’re somewhere else tonight,” Isabella said carefully.

My attention shifted back toward her.

“You flew all the way to Spain physically,” she continued softly, “but mentally?” A faint smile pulled at her mouth. “You’re still with whoever she is.”

“I’m unsure why all the women I know believe someone else is stealing my attention away from them.”

“Because, Titus,” she said, “last time we were together, you acted like I was the only woman who’d ever⁠—”

“That may have been true six months ago,” I answered calmly.

Her smile faded slightly because Isabella Moretti wasn’t accustomed to men losing interest once they had her. Unfortunately for both of us, the only thing I wanted was in California.

“Yeah, I believe the last time,” she cast a glance at Wyatt, who stood in conversation with a group of our Madrid friends, then stepped toward me, “you wanted me before dinner, not after,” she said in a low voice that should’ve done something to me.

It didn’t.

“That may have been what I said that night, Bella, but it wasn’t a permanently open invitation.”

I didn’t care to wait for her reaction. Instead, I made my cold remark and then made my way toward the terrace overlooking Madrid while music carried through the warm night air.

And for the first time in my life… an entire world of wealth, beauty, and access suddenly felt strangely empty without one woman in it.

Not even empty. Pointless, with nothing to hold my attention or offer me any excitement. Tonight, I would endure what was left of this party, and tomorrow, I would meet with my board before alerting my flight crew that I planned to be in Southern California before Eterna dropped anchor off the coast of Newport Beach.

Warm California air hit me when I stepped off the Gulfstream onto the private runway at Los Angeles International.

My black Rolls-Royce was already parked near the aircraft, waiting beneath the glow of the terminal lights with my driver already standing beside the rear passenger door.

Fucking finally home. Or at least significantly closer to the woman currently occupying far too much space in my head.

My phone vibrated before I’d even reached the car. It was my yacht captain, Duarte.

I answered immediately while loosening my tie with one hand. “Tell me the Eterna didn’t sink crossing the Atlantic.”

A quiet laugh rumbled through the older man’s voice. “Certainly not, Mr. Hawk.”

“A lot of people may be disappointed to hear that,” I said with a smile.

“We officially received final United States coastal authorization this evening,” he informed me. “The Eterna will reach Newport anchorage shortly after sunrise.”

Excellent.

I slid into the backseat of the Rolls while the door closed softly behind me.

“We do have somewhat of a situation though,” he advised.