The Fortunate Ones
Page 33
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A shiver runs down my spine as he stands back to his full height, and if I wasn’t sure of his feelings, they’re made perfectly clear by the way he’s staring down at me. His dark eyes are unnerving. His hand lingers on my lower back, drawing me closer. I press a hand against the soft material of his suit and offer an easy smile to ease the tension.
“I’m sorry I can’t spend the day with you,” he says.
“Are you kidding? I’m going to head upstairs and put on a fluffy hotel robe and slippers, maybe order room service.”
His half-smile tells me he’s imagining me in the fluffy robe.
I flush and look away.
“Brooke,” he says, drawing my attention back to him with his soft tone. “I’m glad you came.”
I smile. “I am too.”
…
After the concierge leaves me at the door of our suite, I spend a few minutes snooping around. I can’t guess at the square footage, but it’s completely ridiculous and has probably housed Beyoncé and Jay-Z at some point. There are two bedrooms off of a main living area. Down one hallway I find a small gym, sauna, and wine room. Down another hallway, there’s an office and kitchen. At one point, I GET LOST—that’s how big this place is.
I fulfill the promise I made to James by slipping into a fluffy robe and padding around in the hotel slippers. After I unpack my clothes and fall back onto the bed in a heap of comfy pillows and fluffy blankets, I force myself to work out in the gym so I don’t feel the least bit guilty about the salted caramel tart I tack on to the end of my room service order.
Later in the afternoon, I start to get ready for the evening, happy to take my time. James and I have plans to meet for dinner at the restaurant on the top floor. Their Asian-fusion cuisine has been touted as the best in Vegas, and I’m giddy to try it out.
I want to make up for my yoga pants and sweatshirt. The flirty dress I borrowed from Ellie is a little too short and a little too red. Back home I would have paired it with a leather jacket to try to tone it down, but this is Vegas—the city of sin. So, I don’t think twice when I swipe on an extra coat of mascara and paint my lips in a deep red lipstick appropriately named Candy Apple. With my long black hair and red lips, I look like Snow White’s evil twin.
I head to the elevators and check my reflection in the glass. The nude heels were a nice touch, and the dress is a definite head-turner. That’s further confirmed when I step on the elevator and two well-dressed men pause their conversation. I turn and face the front, concealing my smile from them. The elevator starts to carry us higher and as we pass floor after floor without stopping, I assume they’re also headed to the restaurant.
“Did you catch the panel?” one of them asks.
“Yeah, but I left early. What’d you think of Ashwood?” My ears perk up. “I’ve always heard he’s kind of a prick, but he seemed all right.”
“I thought he was pretty good. He was actually a few years ahead of me at Caltech. I didn’t think he’d remember me. We only had one class together, but I was able to catch up with him after the panel.”
The first guy groans. “Oh c’mon, don’t tell me you’re another Ashwood sycophant.”
I cover up a laugh with a semi-realistic cough. Neither of them notices.
“Name one person here who’s accomplished more in less time than he has,” the Ashwood sycophant says in his defense. “I don’t want to grovel at his feet, but if I get a chance to pick his brain, you better believe I’m going to try.”
He snorts. “Keep praying at the altar of BioWear. Meanwhile, Martin Stone is the real tech leader. You know their stock just split again?”
“What has Stone done lately? Come talk to me in five years when Apple is begging to buy out BioWear.”
The elevator arrives on the top floor and the doors swoop open. The hostess stand is down a thin hallway, and I make sure both men can hear me as I bend forward and announce that I’m here under a reservation for James Ashwood.
The hostess beams. “Of course. Right this way.”
And just because I can’t help it, I turn over my shoulder and soak in the shock on both of their faces. Their jaws are still on the floor when I offer up a sweet smile. “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.”
The hostess leads me to the back of the restaurant where a small table has been reserved against floor-to-ceiling windows. The Vegas strip spreads out for a mile on either side—twinkling lights, the Bellagio fountains, thousands of tourists snapping photos and strolling from one casino to the next.
A well-dressed waiter arrives and although I’m starving, I don’t want to order any food until James arrives. I’m five minutes late, which means James should be here already. I peer around the waiter’s shoulder, confirm he isn’t in the restaurant, and then settle with water.
15 minutes later, I’m still sitting at the table alone, and I decide to switch to white wine.
“How about something from the kitchen while you wait for your companion?”
I shift awkwardly on my seat, aware that the confidence I felt heading up to the restaurant wanes with each minute I’m forced to sit here and wait on my date. I’m suddenly a member of the Lonely Hearts Club, and I don’t like it.
“Ma’am?”
I offer a tight smile. “I’m fine for now. Thank you.”
He dips his head and then turns to address the table behind me. I’m aware of the dining room filled with watchful eyes. The restaurant is packed, and no one gets as dolled up as I am to sit alone, sipping wine. I check my phone, assess that James is now over 30 minutes late, and finally decide to give him a ring. I was hesitant to bother him at first in case he’s busy at the conference, but he can’t expect me to sit here waiting on him all night.
There’s no answer. I hang up when his voicemail kicks on and go back to sipping my wine. Laughter and conversations filter toward me as I tap my fingers on the table like I’m strumming the keys on a piano. I swear my phone vibrates with an incoming call, but when I check it, the screen is blank. I’m growing desperate.
Even when I vow to stop checking my phone, the Bellagio fountains force me to acknowledge how long I’ve been waiting on James. The dancing fountains go off every 15 minutes, in sync with music I can’t hear inside the restaurant. So far, I’ve sat here long enough to see the show six times. My glass of wine has been filled twice, and there’s still no sign of James.
“Would you like another refill?”
The waiter feels bad for me. I can tell because both times, he’s given me generous pours. I shake my head, incapable of offering him anything more without losing the tight cap on my emotions. I’m done playing the waiting game. James is too busy to let me know he’s not coming to dinner, and I’ve decided I’m too busy to wait for him.
“I’ll take the check when you have a moment.” Then I think better of it. “Actually, can I just charge this to my room?”
“Of course. I’ll just need to see your keycard and ID.”
I hand him both and then hold up my finger, scanning the room before landing on a sickeningly adorable couple in their early 20s. They’re sharing one entree and sipping on water, likely trying to stretch their Vegas budget as far as possible. “Go ahead and charge me for the bottle and give the rest to that sweet couple over there. There should be enough left for them to each have a glass.”
It’s hardly a drop in the bucket for James, but it still feels good to jam an expensive bottle of wine into his bill. It’s the only form of revenge that’s accessible at the moment.
He glances behind him to see where I’m pointing. “Oh, of course. I can do that. Would you like to send them a message along with the drinks?”
“How about, Enjoy it while it lasts.”
By the time I walk out of the restaurant, I have regrets about skipping out on an appetizer in favor of wine. I’m feeling slightly lightheaded, and while it’s probably in my best interest to head up to the hotel room and order food, the thought is too depressing. I’ve been cooped up in there by myself all day.
I want company. I want James, but he’s apparently not available.
“I’m sorry I can’t spend the day with you,” he says.
“Are you kidding? I’m going to head upstairs and put on a fluffy hotel robe and slippers, maybe order room service.”
His half-smile tells me he’s imagining me in the fluffy robe.
I flush and look away.
“Brooke,” he says, drawing my attention back to him with his soft tone. “I’m glad you came.”
I smile. “I am too.”
…
After the concierge leaves me at the door of our suite, I spend a few minutes snooping around. I can’t guess at the square footage, but it’s completely ridiculous and has probably housed Beyoncé and Jay-Z at some point. There are two bedrooms off of a main living area. Down one hallway I find a small gym, sauna, and wine room. Down another hallway, there’s an office and kitchen. At one point, I GET LOST—that’s how big this place is.
I fulfill the promise I made to James by slipping into a fluffy robe and padding around in the hotel slippers. After I unpack my clothes and fall back onto the bed in a heap of comfy pillows and fluffy blankets, I force myself to work out in the gym so I don’t feel the least bit guilty about the salted caramel tart I tack on to the end of my room service order.
Later in the afternoon, I start to get ready for the evening, happy to take my time. James and I have plans to meet for dinner at the restaurant on the top floor. Their Asian-fusion cuisine has been touted as the best in Vegas, and I’m giddy to try it out.
I want to make up for my yoga pants and sweatshirt. The flirty dress I borrowed from Ellie is a little too short and a little too red. Back home I would have paired it with a leather jacket to try to tone it down, but this is Vegas—the city of sin. So, I don’t think twice when I swipe on an extra coat of mascara and paint my lips in a deep red lipstick appropriately named Candy Apple. With my long black hair and red lips, I look like Snow White’s evil twin.
I head to the elevators and check my reflection in the glass. The nude heels were a nice touch, and the dress is a definite head-turner. That’s further confirmed when I step on the elevator and two well-dressed men pause their conversation. I turn and face the front, concealing my smile from them. The elevator starts to carry us higher and as we pass floor after floor without stopping, I assume they’re also headed to the restaurant.
“Did you catch the panel?” one of them asks.
“Yeah, but I left early. What’d you think of Ashwood?” My ears perk up. “I’ve always heard he’s kind of a prick, but he seemed all right.”
“I thought he was pretty good. He was actually a few years ahead of me at Caltech. I didn’t think he’d remember me. We only had one class together, but I was able to catch up with him after the panel.”
The first guy groans. “Oh c’mon, don’t tell me you’re another Ashwood sycophant.”
I cover up a laugh with a semi-realistic cough. Neither of them notices.
“Name one person here who’s accomplished more in less time than he has,” the Ashwood sycophant says in his defense. “I don’t want to grovel at his feet, but if I get a chance to pick his brain, you better believe I’m going to try.”
He snorts. “Keep praying at the altar of BioWear. Meanwhile, Martin Stone is the real tech leader. You know their stock just split again?”
“What has Stone done lately? Come talk to me in five years when Apple is begging to buy out BioWear.”
The elevator arrives on the top floor and the doors swoop open. The hostess stand is down a thin hallway, and I make sure both men can hear me as I bend forward and announce that I’m here under a reservation for James Ashwood.
The hostess beams. “Of course. Right this way.”
And just because I can’t help it, I turn over my shoulder and soak in the shock on both of their faces. Their jaws are still on the floor when I offer up a sweet smile. “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.”
The hostess leads me to the back of the restaurant where a small table has been reserved against floor-to-ceiling windows. The Vegas strip spreads out for a mile on either side—twinkling lights, the Bellagio fountains, thousands of tourists snapping photos and strolling from one casino to the next.
A well-dressed waiter arrives and although I’m starving, I don’t want to order any food until James arrives. I’m five minutes late, which means James should be here already. I peer around the waiter’s shoulder, confirm he isn’t in the restaurant, and then settle with water.
15 minutes later, I’m still sitting at the table alone, and I decide to switch to white wine.
“How about something from the kitchen while you wait for your companion?”
I shift awkwardly on my seat, aware that the confidence I felt heading up to the restaurant wanes with each minute I’m forced to sit here and wait on my date. I’m suddenly a member of the Lonely Hearts Club, and I don’t like it.
“Ma’am?”
I offer a tight smile. “I’m fine for now. Thank you.”
He dips his head and then turns to address the table behind me. I’m aware of the dining room filled with watchful eyes. The restaurant is packed, and no one gets as dolled up as I am to sit alone, sipping wine. I check my phone, assess that James is now over 30 minutes late, and finally decide to give him a ring. I was hesitant to bother him at first in case he’s busy at the conference, but he can’t expect me to sit here waiting on him all night.
There’s no answer. I hang up when his voicemail kicks on and go back to sipping my wine. Laughter and conversations filter toward me as I tap my fingers on the table like I’m strumming the keys on a piano. I swear my phone vibrates with an incoming call, but when I check it, the screen is blank. I’m growing desperate.
Even when I vow to stop checking my phone, the Bellagio fountains force me to acknowledge how long I’ve been waiting on James. The dancing fountains go off every 15 minutes, in sync with music I can’t hear inside the restaurant. So far, I’ve sat here long enough to see the show six times. My glass of wine has been filled twice, and there’s still no sign of James.
“Would you like another refill?”
The waiter feels bad for me. I can tell because both times, he’s given me generous pours. I shake my head, incapable of offering him anything more without losing the tight cap on my emotions. I’m done playing the waiting game. James is too busy to let me know he’s not coming to dinner, and I’ve decided I’m too busy to wait for him.
“I’ll take the check when you have a moment.” Then I think better of it. “Actually, can I just charge this to my room?”
“Of course. I’ll just need to see your keycard and ID.”
I hand him both and then hold up my finger, scanning the room before landing on a sickeningly adorable couple in their early 20s. They’re sharing one entree and sipping on water, likely trying to stretch their Vegas budget as far as possible. “Go ahead and charge me for the bottle and give the rest to that sweet couple over there. There should be enough left for them to each have a glass.”
It’s hardly a drop in the bucket for James, but it still feels good to jam an expensive bottle of wine into his bill. It’s the only form of revenge that’s accessible at the moment.
He glances behind him to see where I’m pointing. “Oh, of course. I can do that. Would you like to send them a message along with the drinks?”
“How about, Enjoy it while it lasts.”
By the time I walk out of the restaurant, I have regrets about skipping out on an appetizer in favor of wine. I’m feeling slightly lightheaded, and while it’s probably in my best interest to head up to the hotel room and order food, the thought is too depressing. I’ve been cooped up in there by myself all day.
I want company. I want James, but he’s apparently not available.
