A smirk. It’s nine in the morning, and I am in his house, and he made me breakfast, and he’s smirking. What. The. Fuck.
Damien carries the plates to a table and sets them down. Then, he pulls my chair out for me. He watches as I slowly take a seat, still trying to process all of this. It feels off limits, but it also feels natural.
I take a bite and involuntarily let out a small “Mmm…”
“Glad you like it,” he says as he takes a bite of his own. “You can’t really go wrong with avocado toast.”
“Oh, you absolutely can,” I argue, covering my chewing with a napkin. “Sourdough is a must. Buttering it first is preferable, and the avocado has to be firm, diced, not smashed. This isn’t Mexican food. Lemon, pepper, balsamic, feta. And the bacon is…” I punctuate the statement with a chef’s kiss, and Damien’s lips tip in a smile.
“I had no idea you were so serious about your breakfast food,” he says as I take a sip of my coffee. Cream and vanilla. He knows me.
“Oh, very,” I answer.
“Nice shirt,” he points down with his eyes.
“I didn’t have a lot of options.”
“Housekeeping is dry cleaning the dress,” he says, and I chew more slowly. I should have known he would have housekeeping in a place like this.
“I’ll need more than this to leave the house though,” I say, and he nods, dabbing his own mouth with a napkin.
“Already thought of it. Clothes have been delivered for you to change into.”
I stop chewing altogether. “You got me more clothes?”
“Well, I don’t expect you to wear an evening gown to the Neon Lights Festival,” he says casually, and I almost drop my toast.
“I forgot that was this weekend,” I say, looking at the date on my phone, and he nods. “Are we working?” Damien nods again.
Neon Lights is a citywide festival that more or less shuts down half of Las Vegas. It’s a tradition started by several of the major hotels–the Redwood and Luxurelle included–with a plethora of food trucks, live entertainment, a kid zone and vendor booths. The purpose of it was to bring money that wasn’t automatically being dumped into the city’s gambling scene, which would in turn profit the hotels that don’t have casinos. It’s also more family-centric, something you don’t see in Las Vegas often.
“Yeah, I wouldn’t want to wear an evening gown and lingerie to that,” I say, sipping on my coffee as my brain reroutes the agenda for the day.
“I didn’t think so.”
“Shit,” I say, picking my phone up again. “If I’m working on a Saturday, I’ll need to make sure Rachel can watch Luca.”
Damien swallows the last of his coffee and picks up our plates. “You don’t have to work.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Presence is all that matters, and I kind of hate hanging around my hotels during this festival. I’d rather get lost in the crowd, if anything. It’s a good excuse to peruse other hotels, check out the competition, things like that. I spend most of this weekend wearing clothes that I won’t be miserably hot in, considering it’s no less than ninety-nine degrees out. That way I don’t pass out and also, no one recognizes me.”
“So Luca can come with us?” I ask just to reiterate.
“Yes. Of course. The clothes are in the first spare room on the right,” he says. “The one with the balcony facing the grotto.”
I nod and stand up from the table. The grotto…Jesus Christ.
Sure enough, there is a fully furnished room similar to his bedroom, but with lighter colors, including a balcony that overlooks the property. Why he wouldn’t choose this room for his bedroom. I look back over my shoulder just to make sure Iam alone and then tiptoe out the french doors. It’s already warm, but there is a soft desert breeze, and I close my eyes, letting it brush over my face for a moment. No city traffic. No honking cars or lawn mowers or people yelling. It’s quiet. A luxury I haven’t known in so long.
Tears sting my eyes, and I decide I have been out here long enough before stepping back inside. As Damien said, there is a rack of clothes, just like he had delivered to the office. Unlike the office attire, all of this is casual, from jeans to leggings to shorts and a couple summer dresses.
I decide on a coral-colored summer dress. It’s short, flowy, and strappy in the back. If I am going to be outside most of the day, I want something as airy as possible. After I change, I step into the bathroom. The towels are folded perfectly, and there’s hand soap and lotion on the counter just like in a hotel. I smile to myself, wondering if he’s ever been outside of a hotel setting. I also think about what he told me about his life. From the sounds of it, he isn’t close to many people and never really has been. The man is like the ocean, dark and torrent on the surface, but I can’t help but wonder if it gets calmer deeper down.
I rub some of the lotion on my face and pull my hair up into a ponytail with a hair tie I had in my purse. I also have a travel-size deodorant with me. When I go back into the main area, I stop. Damien is wearing khaki shorts, short enough to show off his strapping leg muscles, a white tank top and a white, short-sleeved, button-down shirt over the top, buttons open. His abs ripple under the tank, and I have to put in physical effort to rip my eyes away from his torso. He’s also wearing black sneakers. Vans. For whatever reason, it all catches me off guard.
“Are you alright?” he asks, probably because of the look on my face.
