My Five Night Fling by Maci Dillon
KASSIDY
What the hell?
Debris floats from the sky and lands on my face.
For protection, I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and swipe my hand over my face as another light drop of heavenly residue tickles my nose.
Three steps outside London Central Station, I’m sandwiched between businessmen on their phones and families with young children rushing to keep in step with each other.
Having no clue what direction I should be walking, I push ahead with the flow of foot traffic and hope for the best.
Shaking my head, I brush off the shit falling all around me. Snow-white satin feathers whisp across my face and land on my sunglasses, obscuring my view.
Then it hits me.
No fucking way.
Squinting, I remove my glasses and move my face to look at the sky.
It’s snowing.
Waves of excitement build as I anticipate a snowy holiday. At first, it was so light, the flakes had disappeared before they landed on the ground, but the further I walk, the heavier the snowflakes fall, creating a thin icy blanket beneath my feet.
My grin expands the width of my face until my cheeks ache from the intrusion. My nose is frozen solid, so I pull my beanie further over my ears to protect them from the icy breeze.
Snowfalls in late March aren’t the norm, but crazier things have been known to happen. With spring settling in, I had hoped and prayed to see snow for the first time, though I wasn’t optimistic. With all my heart, I prayed to the weather gods on my flight over, and here I am, walking among the magic of my childhood dreams. Ever since I took this assignment and booked a stopover in London on my return home, I dreamed of a snowy visit to the Big Smoke.
As a little girl, sitting on the rickety front porch of my parents’ old Queenslander in the scorching hot Australian summers, I had waited for this moment. Or rather, I imagined myself dancing the night away under the streetlight, snow falling all around me. With my prince, of course.
Excuse me, no judgment.
I was young, innocent, and believed in fairy tales.
Hell, I still do.
Thirty years later, my design and marketing degree has landed me a dream position with an international company, affording me a jet-setter’s lifestyle.
I bounce from client to client, contract to contract, around the globe, living the single woman’s dream—the world at my feet, men too, all served up with a no-strings-attached expectation.
With my career, I thrive on learning from the best gurus worldwide to catapult my success. Climbing the ranks in a male-dominated field isn’t easy, but sure as this snow falling on my face, it is possible.
I’m goal-driven and motivated by success. My friends love my dedication and enthusiasm, even though they often tease me about my need for power. It’s one hundred percent true, I can’t dispute that fact.
One thing I promised myself on this journey was never to lose sight of myself. To stay true to me, never stray from the unexpected, the fun. My wild side.
Okay, it’s not that wild. But still.
Shh, okay, you got me. I enjoy life on the wild side.
Even strong career-orientated women need an outlet. A way to unwind, an excuse to let go and enjoy the beauty life has to offer. Believe me, I’m no stranger to letting my hair down, but I can count the moments on one hand where I did something spontaneous over the past few years.
London is my fresh canvas. A chance to redefine me, shop for unnecessary items, drink strange beers, and eat lots of weird shit.
London.
Five nights.
A fairy tale imagining.
The perfect backdrop.
Caught up in the fantasy of my trip, I disregard the onlookers and pedestrians sharing the pathway. Right where I stand, I throw my arms out wide, my head falls backward, and I twirl like the ballerina I’ll never be.
“Shit, sorry!” I gasp, clasping my hands over my mouth as I open my eyes to find a mother and her child in front of me. Both of them are wearing comical expressions despite me accidentally swiping them with my flailing arms.
“My apologies, I guess I lost track of where I was.” I’m caught up in the moment.
The woman laughs and points to my backpack strapped tightly over my shoulders. “First time in London or first-time experiencing snow?”
My lips pull into a dreamy grin.
“Both.” On my visit to Prague for the business part of my trip, I saw snow on the hills in the distance, but there was no snowfall while I was there.
The woman, still holding the young boy’s hand, offers a smile in return. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you. I have no doubt I will.” A chuckle escapes me as I fall back into the fantasy world of finding my one true love.
If only my grandmother were still with us.
Poor Grandma, she listened to me babble on about dreams as a child for countless hours on our family porch. After all these years, she’ll be thrilled to learn I’m still the same little girl inside.
As I poorly navigate my way through the streets of Central London, I feel her presence by my side.
Two-story buses loaded with tourists pointing and taking photos buzz by me. The guides are talking into a microphone and sharing their local knowledge.
Yeah, I’m over the top, far too swept up in the fantasy of this trip, but fuck it, I deserve this. After a week conference in Prague, the days so long I barely glimpsed the streets in daylight hours, this brief five-night stopover is exactly what I need.
No work talk.
Goals, what goals?
Chasing success is for women not on vacation.
Five nights—all about me and me alone.
For two years now, colleagues, friends, and family have continued to harass me about taking a break.
‘Enjoy being a single woman in your mid-twenties,’ they would say. ‘Live your best life before you settle down and have children of your own.’
The unwelcome advice was relentless, yet here I am.
This is me, breaking free—freedom from long hours at the office and sleepless nights. The only sleepless nights I’m interested in this week will be filled with dirty sex—one-night hookups and no strings.
As much as my heart sings with my love of fairy tale endings, I have no time or patience for romance in my life. I have worked too damn hard to press pause on my career for any emotional relationship.
Married to my work. That’s me.
The sexual kind of relationships, though? A whole different bag of balls.
London is my playground, and hell, I’m going to make it my bitch.
I cringe any time I flashback to my last intimate relationship—the kind with emotions involved. Midway through college, it proved nothing but a distraction. Nothing good was ever going to come from it. I hated to admit it, but I lowered my standards more often than I cared to admit back then. The sex drew me in, and I stayed in a place I knew, one that felt comfortable. There was no excitement, no challenge, no experience. Even the sex became boring after a while, and in the end, both of us would walk away feeling less than satisfied and less like ourselves. What was the point?
Miniature cars with incessant horns beep around me as I thoughtlessly step into the street. I jump backward, almost toppling over with the weight of my backpack, straps digging harshly into my shoulders. Once I safely make it across the street, I take a seat on the park bench to gain my bearings.
My stomach rumbles, proof the airline breakfast of fake bacon and powdered eggs were exactly as I thought—utter rubbish and a waste of energy trying to chew and process it.
Okay, I’m getting hungry now, bordering on the edge of hangry. Never a good place to be.
Releasing my bag to relieve my back, I pull out the oversized map I grabbed at the airport. Yes, I know. It would be easier to punch the destination into maps on my phone, but where’s the fun in that?
I need to figure out where I am versus where I need to go. Snowflakes fall heavier and faster around me as I unfold the map the best I can while wearing gloves.
I glance up at the sky, undeniably darker now than when I first arrived. Quickly, I tuck the map away and attach myself to my backpack, securing it around my middle.
Time to get moving, find a warm place to pull up a chair, and eat my weight in tasty food.
The increasing moisture in the air and icy coverage on the rough, uneven footpaths have me concentrating on my steps more than usual. Now isn’t the time to show off my lack of balance. Thankfully, I chose street-worthy long boots with a low heel for the flight over.
Cautiously, I weave through the growing crowd of pedestrians, searching for a familiar street name, shop, or park from the research I had done before my arrival. From the moment a lonely snowflake landed on my nose, I continue to walk in the direction my feet carry me, marveling at the beauty of my surroundings.
A deep grumble in the pit of my stomach urges me to move a little faster and a little smarter, so I continue along the street I’m on. The worst-case scenario, I’m down with flagging a cab to deliver me to my hotel, which I know is surrounded by restaurants, cafés, and pubs. Finding a meal will be a simple feat then.
A rowdy group of men ahead capture my attention as they scurry across the road and stumble through a heavy wooden door. I follow, and as I approach the entrance, I swiftly turn from the footpath without a moment’s consideration as to what I’m walking into.
As I push open the door, warmth invades my ice-cold cheeks, and my nose tingles as it begins to defrost. My stomach somersaults in response to the delicious aroma of food that fills the air.
I remove my gloves, rub my hands together, and enjoy the warmth from the friction as I glance around the café. A wood fire burns in the center of the room, giving off a soft intimate glow. A quick assessment of the diners suggests it’s a popular place for couples to meet over lunch, share a kiss and the events of the day. Girlfriends gather over coffee and croissants, sharing laughs and their dirty secrets.
Jealousy punches me in the ribs as a familiar feeling of homesickness trickles through me. I miss home, and it’s going on ten days since I clocked up some serious girl time. While social media makes it easy to keep in contact, it isn’t the same.
I make a mental note to Skype Miah, Raven, and Chloe when I make it to my room. As I search the café for a free table, I consider sending my mother a quick message to let her know I arrived safely. While my mother and I aren’t particularly close, we do stay in contact, especially when traveling. A simple photo or occasional text is often enough.
First, I desperately need to find a seat to relieve my aching muscles.
Focus, Kassidy.
Suddenly, a cold draft hits full force from behind me. Quickly, I’m knocked off balance, and I’m seconds away from landing face-first into a row of memorabilia lining the walls.
