Chapter 39
Lexie
Entering the lobby of the hotel, the first thing I notice is the chandelier. It resembles a huge round snowflake; one made entirely of glass and light. It’s impressive and playful which works with the marble interior. Everything is marble, the walls, ceiling, and floor are all white and gray marble. The floor has curvy black lines running throughout that matches the black doors and window frames.
There is, however, one set of doors that extend from the floor to the ceiling that looks like stainless steel. The chandelier is reflected in that section of the wall which is flanked by two humongous sculptures of some crazy looking heads. I know that’s a lot of information to take in so trust me when I say it’s glamorous. That’s the best word to describe this space.
I step up to the small desk near the door. A nameplate that simply says ‘concierge’ is attached to the front. I wait my turn as he’s speaking to an older debonair gentleman probably in his eighties. When the elder gentleman sees me, he tips his head and smiles as he turns away.
When it’s my turn, I hesitate. Oh, hell, I can’t remember the name of the restaurant. I pull my phone out of my bag and read Cammy’s text. “Can you tell me where I’ll find the Margeaux Brasserie?”
“Upstairs one level, on your left.”
“Thank you.” To give me a little more time to gather the courage needed for this morning’s interview, I opt for the stairs rather than the elevator. I slowly climb a set of stairs covered in carpet that matches the black and white marble flooring. Imagining how much that must have cost takes my mind off my wobbly knees. At the top, I look left and see a sign for the restaurant. I take in a gulp of air for courage and step in front of the hostess.
“May I help you?” She asks it in such a way that I really don’t think she means it.
“I’m meeting someone.”
“Name?”
“Gabriel Parker.”
She looks at me from head to toe ending on my face. With a scowl, she steps out from behind her podium and mutters, “Right this way.”
I follow her through the restaurant, weaving in and out of round tables and past booths until we’re at the furthest table from the front. I step up to Gabriel who is chatting animatedly to a young man, probably in his mid-twenties, in a blue dress shirt, blue tie, and blue sweater vest. He appears to take his fashion cues from Gabriel.
Smiling broadly, Gabriel stands. “Darling! You made it.”
“I did.” I smile up at him, letting him kiss my cheek. I turn to the other man, who I assume is the reporter. I reach my hand out to him, “Lexie Cartwright.”
He stands, wiping his mouth with his napkin before speaking. Reaching out his hand, we shake. “Doug Johnson, Chicago Magazine, online edition. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You as well.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you breakfast.”
“Oh, great. I’m starving.” I never ate last night. I tossed the bag with the Italian food Gabriel brought over into the garbage can. Yeah, I was that upset with him. I settle into my seat and sip from a goblet of ice water sitting at my place setting.
Smiling at Doug, I wait. For what, I’m not sure. “So, Lexie. You work for Gabriel?”
“Yes, she does. She’s worked for me for about eight months. As a matter of fact, she insisted that we keep our personal relationship out of the office before she’d agree to go out with me. Didn’t you darling?”
“Uh…” I don’t get to finish when Doug asks another question.
“Lexie,” Doug says looking first at Gabriel, then at me. “Do you plan on staying with Gabriel’s firm? You have a degree in Marketing, correct? What are your goals for the next few years?
“She does?” Gabriel quickly recovers, “Well, to be with me, of course,” Gabriel doesn’t give me a shot at that answer at all.
“Do you plan to continue to work?”
“Oh, um…”
“Why, of course, she does. Lexie wants her own fun money.” Gabriel says leaning in conspiratorially toward Doug adding, “She loves to shop.” He sits back in his chair sliding an arm onto the back of mine.
My face is flushed pink with embarrassment. How condescending of him to 1) speak for me and 2) make it sound like I don’t support myself. Before I can contradict him, our waiter returns. Placing a small plate in front of me with one boiled egg, three grapes, one strawberry, a slice of kiwi, and a cube of melon I blink up at him. “What’s this?” I ask the server.
“Your breakfast?” He quickly places a lovely little teacup next to the plate with several tea bags resting on the saucer and a tiny metal teapot, no doubt filled with hot water.
