Page 29 of His Assistant

“Mr. Vieri,” he greets. “Ms. Bellini. Welcome to Las Vegas.”

“Julian,” Dominic answers as congenially as he can. “Thanks for having us.”

The two men shake hands before two bellhops appear, seemingly from out of nowhere, and grab our bags. Then, the man escorts us through the massive lobby, past a bank of elevators, and to a private lift that requires his key card.

Dominic doesn’t react at all, so this must be completely normal to him, but my head is reeling. There have to be hundreds of people milling around the lobby. The check-in line is long, and plenty of the tourists already look drunk and angry.

“Is this your first time in Las Vegas, Ms. Bellini?” Julian asks me.

“It is,” I squeak out. I do somehow manage to stop myself before I tell him it’s my first time leaving New York.

“I have lots of recommendations if you’d like to see the Strip this evening.”

“All I want to see is my room,” I tell him off-handedly, too tired to care if I’m being rude.

Dominic chuckles next to me.

“Very good, ma’am,” Julian says, ever the professional.

When the elevator opens, we all step inside. Julian swipes his card again, and the car starts moving without him pressing a single button. It’s a fairly long ride, and I realize we must be going all the way to the top.

When the doors open, we’re in a penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the Vegas Strip, marble floors gleam, and the furniture is more luxurious than anything I’ve ever seen. There’s a small kitchen and dining area too. Thankfully, the two bedrooms sit on opposite sides.

The bellhops wait patiently, and Dominic looks at me expectantly.

“Which room do you want?” he asks.

“Oh.” I blink rapidly and look between the two. From where I’m standing, they look exactly the same to me. I just pick one. “That one,” I answer lamely.

“Very good,” our guide answers, snapping for one of the bellhops to take my small bag to the room I’ve chosen, while the other heads toward Dominic’s room.

“If you need anything at all,” Julian says to Dominic, “you know where to find me.”

Dominic nods and shakes his hand again. I’m pretty sure there’s a wad of cash there, but it isn’t my place to notice or care. I just mumble a goodnight and head off to my room.

“We’ll have breakfast at six,” Dominic calls to me. “And then we’re leaving for our meeting at seven.”

I just nod and throw him a thumbs-up as I make my way to the luxurious bed waiting for me. I’m so tired and wrung out that I don’t even change or take off my makeup. I collapse onto the bed and let the cool covers swallow me whole.

We’re only supposed to be here for two days. I can handle that. I just need to get through a few meetings and then I never have to worry about sharing a penthouse with Dominic again.

My stomach is still sensitive, so I raid the minibar for ginger ale and crackers. Dominic can afford it. It’s the least he can do for dragging me here. I finally force myself to shower, if only to rinse off the sweat, then wrap myself in the world’s fluffiest towel. I climb into bed, kill the lights, and have one of the best sleeps of my entire life.

The next morning, I’m up before the sun. I check my phone and see that it’s already ninety degrees. I sigh and get up, dressing in the only outfit I brought, which hopefully holds up against the heat. I meet Dominic at six sharp in the private dining room. There’s already a cart full of food and a carafe of coffee.

“This is fancy,” I say carefully.

“Stick with me, you’ll get used to it.” He smirks.

I don’t see how I’ll ever get used to this, but I smile anyway and lift one of the dish covers to see what we have. It’s a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and an assortment of pastries. My stomach is still in knots, so I grab some toast and a few eggs and sit down.

We eat in silence, which feels wrong. The last few weeks, it’s been easy to avoid Dominic as much as possible, but not talking when we’re sitting at the same table feels strange.

“I put the updated contracts for the Keller meeting in the blue folder. I flagged the resort management agreement because section eight references the wrong revenue split.”

His hand stills on his coffee. “Show it to me,” he demands.

I pull out the contracts and hand one to him.