1
ABU DHABI
DECEMBER
NATALIA
New York to London, London to Athens, Athens to Abu Dhabi. Nineteen hours in the air, and I’m exhausted. There are very few people in the hotel lounge, but maybe that’s normal for nine p.m. on a Wednesday.
I pause in the archway, taking it all in. French pop plays too loudly over the speakers. The Sputnik-sphere lamps cast an intimate speckled glow. Bartenders glide back and forth, all agile charm. The air smells like toasted sesame and pricey booze.
I cross the room and lean against the bar, shooting another text to Phaedra.
Me:Phae! Omg why aren’t you answering??? This place is booked solid during grand prix week, so if you don’t LET ME IN I’m going to have to sleep in the lobby.
I darken my phone and stuff it into my purse before signaling the bartender. He strolls over and leans opposite me with a gleaming white smile and an unsubtle once-over.
“How can I…help you?”
Oh my. He really put everything he could into that pause. “Bless his heart,” as Aunt Minnie would say.
I point at the ice water he’s just set down. “Thank you for this, but I might be here awhile. May I get some juice?”
He rubs a knuckle against his jaw, following the precise line of dark beard scruff. “Sure, beautiful. What kind?”
I offer a friendly shrug as my purse vibrates with a text. “Surprise me.”
Of course the message isn’t from Phae.
I can’t get a break…
It’s Josh, my (former) editor at the arts and culture magazine where I’ve been a staff writer for three years, before resigning via an email on Monday night.
Josh:Did you seriously jump ship without notice and take a job with Auto Racing Journal? Or was it the thing about Shelby? You have to believe me, doll—we are NOT back together. I just need to move in again because it’s less confusing for the kids.
My nostrils flare and I jab out a reply.
Me:ARJ is a better salary, plus free travel. And I have an “in” with F1 because my best friend works forEmerald. Shelby is welcome to have you—I don’t need another married liar. Have a nice life, Josh.
A glass of magenta sludge is set before me. The bartender’s lips curl in a flirty smirk as he drags a wrapped drinking straw suggestively between two fingers.
“Beetroot,” he informs me. “You said to surprise you.”
I flash jazz hands. “Surprise!”
“Beetroot is good for stamina. I drink it every day… so I can go all night.”
I’m now apparently being seduced by the Dwight Schrute of the United Arab Emirates. What’s next, karate moves?
Mercifully, someone at the other end of the bar catches his attention and he walks away.
Me:RESCUE ME, Phae. It’s like a tank of piranhas down here.
Seconds later, he’s back.
I’m about to snap at the Drakkar Noir–soaked Romeo mixologist when he sets a tumbler of fragrant bourbon down and tips a grudging nod toward the end of the bar.
“From the gentleman.” He walks off without awaiting my response.
