“Very complex engineering and architecture,” he tells me. “I’ll try to explain. The majority of the rooms between the thirteenth and the fifteenth floors are on the perimeter of the hotel, lining this room. But up the stairs there are three executive suites, two of which I offer to only my most prestigious guests and one that is for personal use.”
Damien looks at me, waiting for his stare to draw my eyes away from the grandeur of it all and back to him again. Once he has my full attention, he finishes his sentence.
“I am taking you to that room.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice feathered because I’m still struggling to take it all in. I’m struggling to wrap my brain around the idea that this has been here the entire time, hidden in plain sightevery day that I have been working for Damien, and I had no idea.
“You seem like you’re under a lot of stress, Ellie, and I don’t think you should be driving.”
“What?” I ask as he opens the door to his personal suite.
“I don’t think you should be driving, Mariposa. You seem unwell.” The way he says the word–mariposa–is enough to send warm tingles cascading down my spine. Damien doesn’t typically have an accent unless he is speaking in Spanish, in which case his words are like hot honey. That isn’t the word that has caught me off guard right now.
“You called me Ellie…” I say, and Damien blinks slowly.
“Isn’t that what you want to be called? What you asked me to call you?”
“Well, yes, but,” I push a lock of my hair behind my ear. “You never have. You refused, actually.”
“I’ve been selfish,” he says, and my brain literally explodes in my head. Okay, so not literally. You know where I’m coming from here…None of this is Damien. At least not the Damien I know. Between the hidden floors, the luxurious suite I am standing in, that looks more like a penthouse than a hotel room, and the soft, dare I say sweet expression on Damien’s face right now, I am starting to believe I never knew him at all.
“I want you to stay here tonight,” he goes on. “I don’t like the idea of you driving, and I get the impression you need a getaway. From what, I don’t know, but I can tell you are stressed, Ellie. And I want you to feel…taken care of.”
Red lights are flashing in my brain like police sirens. With every word my boss is saying, I know we are entering uncharted territory. But he is right, I need a night away. Rachel keeps Luca overnight when I “work” late shifts, and I come get him after breakfast the next day. I suppose that for the first time in years, I have nowhere to be.
“Come,” he says, leading me towards a small bar near the kitchen. He turns a light on, and pale orange lighting sets everything on display. Then, he uses a remote on the wall to set the overhead lighting to dim. It’s bright enough that we can see, but not overbearing. It really sets the mood.
What mood? Jesus, Ellie. There is no mood. Moods mean feelings, and feelings don’t exist between us.
At least that’s what I tell myself. As he makes me drink something with gin and grapefruit juice with a dried fruit garnish, I realize it’s getting harder and harder to get my heart out of the fast lane.
“Here,” he says, handing me the carefully crafted drink.
I take the glass and pluck the garnish off first and press it between my lips and my tongue. Spiced pear. My eyes flicker up to him, and his lips part. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that watching me eat this pear is a turn-on for him, even if it is only meant to be a garnish. But there’s something else in his eyes as well; something I can’t place. Curiosity?
“This is delicious. Thank you,” I tell him softly. Damien mixes his own drink and leads me over to the couch. It faces the windows that overlook the city. There’s an electric fireplace going, and everything about the room feels cozy, safe, and warm.
“Ellie,” he says my name again, and I look up at him. Damien’s dark eyes are pained with concern. It’s only then that I realize a tear is sliding down my cheek.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” I say as my cheeks flush. I take a sip of my cocktail just to give myself something to do.
“Talk to me,” he says with a familiar sternness. I am grateful for it, but all this softness is starting to feel weird.
I take a deep breath. He has me on a slippery slope. One that has a drop off on the other side, and there’s no going back if I take the leap. But the way he is looking at me, the way his toneis both demanding and gentle, I find myself closing my eyes and jumping.
“I feel like I can’t catch my breath,” I tell him.
“How so?”
How so? Jesus, now that’s a loaded question.
“I used to think that my life would be…so different than it is now. So much more than it is now. As you know from my resume, six years ago I was working at another hotel, but not as an assistant. No offense.” I glance over at him, but he doesn’t say anything. In fact, his expression doesn’t really tell me anything at all, so I keep going. “I was in event planning; well on my way to marketing, but my ex sabotaged my career, and I ended up being ostracized by all of my co-workers, so I quit. Then, I spent the next five years of my life struggling, as you can imagine considering my circumstances. This is the first opportunity I have had to rebuild everything I lost. And I feel like I’m failing!”
“Why do you think you’re failing?” he asks with narrowed eyes. I’ve noticed it’s something he does when he is trying to better understand something.
“You’re constantly upset with me,” I say dryly.
“Why do you think I am upset with you, Annelise?” he asks. It’s funny. I have always, always hated when people call me by my real name, but after hearing him call me that, I almost prefer it. At least from him anyway.
