Page 20 of Always Be an Us

I’m not in a weird twentieth-century brothel with the blond waitress. I’m at the Marriot in the VIP suite.

But what the hell kind of dream was that?

The first part of the dream was unusual enough. I barely have wet dreams anymore and I never have them about random women I’ve only met twice.

I can typically get any woman I want, so not much thrills me in that regard.

The fact that I just had a passionate dream about Emma means...something. I don’t know precisely what it means but I don’t like it.

"Fuck." I run my hands through my hair.

It’s probably because of that fucking kiss.

The stupid insane kiss I gave her in the doorway, with her grandfather and my daughter just a few feet away. I can only imagine what would have happened if Amelia caught us kissing.

I’ve dated since her mother and I divorced, but I try not to bring those women around my daughter. And I pretty much keep my love life under wraps for that reason. I never want my daughter to have to see stuff like that because I'm not sure she’s old enough to handle it.

So, the fact that I kissed Emma, where Amelia could have seen us, could only have been due to my temporary insanity brought by worry and anger. That had to be it.

Luckily, Amelia missed the fact that I kissed her, if her lack of reaction when I got back to the car is any indication.

I glance out the window, noting that the day is just breaking. The large orange sun sits on the horizon, shooting rays into the bluish-pink sky. I don't take time to enjoy the sunrise.

I might as well get an early start to my day.

I get out of bed, and walk to the living room area, to make myself some coffee. Amelia's door is still closed, so she's probably asleep. She spent most of last night poring over that journal she got from Emma. Her night light was on till around midnight when I put my foot down and insisted she go to bed.

I shake my head. The second part of the dream is probably due to my daughter. She’d started reading the journal on the way back to the hotel, apparently determined to ignore my scolding. I saw her eyes move over the pages, voraciously devouring the text. And when I asked her what it was about, she told me a whole big story about a pearl and a woman who disappears after her lover dies at the Pink Hotel.

Heck, that was probably what caused the dream in the first place.

But for now, I need to forget about the dream and figure out how I’m going to keep my daughter out of trouble while I work today. Plus I need to figure out a suitable punishment for yesterday.

How about taking away her black card? Or reducing her allowance to a thousand a week?

My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts.

I stroll over to the master bedroom again and pick it up from my bedside table.

"Hello?"

"I should have known you would be awake by this time," Rachel croons in her smooth practiced dulcet. "I was hoping to leave a voice mail. Let me guess. You’re working?"

"Always." One of the reasons that our marriage fell apart was because I was constantly working. Rachel never let it go. "What’s up?"

"I was wondering if I can take Amelia off your hands on Thursday," she says. "I know it will be your week to have her, but my clothing brand is having a show at fashion week for the first time. I want her to be there."

"Congratulations," I say. "But you know she’s not a fan of that fashion stuff." My daughter lives in graphic t-shirts and ratty jeans no matter how many designer clothes her mother buys her.

"She’s not a fan because she won’t give it a chance," Rachel says. "She's still in her tomboy phase. Heck, I was a tomboy too, till I turned fifteen. Give it time. Her fashionista bone might kick in any day now, and she'll transform into America's newest it girl."

"Right," I snort. "Alright then. I’ll see if she’s okay with it and then I’ll send her over."

"Great."

There are a few beats of silence but Rachel hasn’t hung up yet.

"Anything else?" I ask.

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