Page 41 of The Other Side of Apart
I look out the window, taking in the bright lights around me. “He’s my hero, too,” I say around the lump in my throat. This guy has no idea just how much of a superhero Marcus really is.
We drive in silence until my personal chauffeur pulls into valet parking at The Palazzo’s main entrance. He darts around the car to open my door for me, and I step out. I thank him, and then thank the doorman who yanks the towering, gold door wide open for me.
My gaze climbs the illuminated statue in the sprawling atrium, and I fight feelings of smallness with the thought that Marcus is here—somewhere in this hotel—waiting for me.
I follow the signs to the guest elevators, knowing I must look as awestruck as I feel. I’ve never been in a building like this and can’t wait to find out how Marcus managed to get us here.
The elevator opens, and I step inside, scanning my keycard before pressing Floor 18. I watch the rolling numbers, anticipation buzzing through me, growing each time the doors slide open and couples stream in and out. When the elevator eases to a stop on the eighteenth floor, I walk out and stop to check my appearance in the mirror hanging above a gilded bureau. I’ve been so preoccupied with tracking down Marcus that I haven’t thought to run a brush through my hair or put on anything nice. Though my “nice” is limited to jeans and V-necks, a jacket to cover my ratty tank top, and a toothbrush, would be helpful right about now.
Checking Marcus’s note once again for the room number, I make my way down the hallway, my feet light on the heavily padded carpeting.
Outside room 1824, I wave the keycard in front of the reader, and it clicks. Pushing the door open, I ease inside, but halt in my tracks in the foyer.
The room beyond is lit up with electric candles that sit on every surface, their warm glow casting shadows across the carpet. I ease ahead, follow a path of flickering votives into the bedroom, which expands into a sunken living area with floor to ceiling windows. A tub of gelato sits in the center of the bed, and I read the note propped against it:
Happy 100-day anniversary
365 Forever
-M
Warmth spreads against my back, and I smile as Marcus’s hands slip around my waist from behind, flattening on my stomach. He presses his lips to the curve of my neck, creatinga trail of heat. I close my eyes and lean back against his chest, letting his hands sweep away all my earlier worry and anxiety.
“Hey,” he whispers against my ear, and I squeal when he picks me up and lays me on the bed.
“Mmm…not so fast, Marcus Miller. You have some explaining to do,” I scold.
“Nothing to explain,” he says in a British accent. “It was magic, and a magician never reveals his secrets, love. Though apparently, this magician is not efficient at filling a room with candles. It took forever.”
I laugh, pushing him away, and roll toward the tub of stracciatella. “Suit yourself, but ‘Girl with gelato does not become distracted by hot boy until gelato is gone,’” I say in my best Guo Mama voice, slipping my hands under the bulging tub and holding it up like a gift to the Gods. “If you thinkyou’remagic, wait until you see me make this disappear before your sugar-loving eyes.”
I cross my legs, setting the tub in my lap, and pry the lid off. “You can stay if you want, but we’re about to have a moment, and things might get a little crazy.” I grab the spoon lying patiently in the box and dig in. “Mmmm…so good,” I say, my mouth brimming. “I would share, but we’ll see if there’s any left over.”
Marcus lays on his side, head propped in his hand as he watches me eat. “I’m sorry for making you worry, but surprising you isn’t easy these days. Lots of planning and executing for my lady.” His grin rivals the room full of candles, their glow resting on his face. He looks amazing in his white ribbed tank top and sweats hanging low on his waist. His usually messy hair is damp from a shower, blue eyes telling me everything I ever need to know.
I set the tub on the nightstand and take a picture of him with my phone. Then I push his chest, rolling him to his back, and straddle him.
“Done so soon?” He smiles up at me, his hands circling my waist. “Not that I’m complaining, but…it’s your favorite.”
“Second favorite.” I grip the hem of my shirt, keeping my eyes on his as I pull it up and over my head.
CHAPTER 21
Mei: Don’t believe in aliens, huh?? If you saw the guy I just helped find vacuum sealed baked beans, I am positive you’d be eating your words. But not the beans. Never the beans. His name was Zertog (no last name). Believe.
Iback the Aston Martin into a stall and reluctantly step out. The smell of new leather and cologne that costs way more than my motorcycle makes me wish for just one day in the life of someone who has money to burn on valet parking.
After locking the car, I run back to the valet stand, swiping sweat from my forehead. Vegas in late September doesn’t offer anything remotely resembling a cool breeze. I want to laugh at the thought of all my hoodies stuffed in my bag back at our place. I haven’t taken them out since we got here two months ago, and I probably won’t any time soon.
I reach the valet desk, dangling the Aston Martin keys in front of Patrick. “Thought about stealing her,” I admit as I tag the keys.
“Dude—you should. The owner is a total loser. He has a few of them. He could count it as his one and only charitable donation.”
I smile and hang the key. “You know what I could do with the money I could get from that car? I definitely wouldn’t be working here.” I make a note in the logbook and laugh, imagining myself walking into The University of Anywhere’s admissions office and paying my tuition in full. And then I think about the money I walked away from at Stanford. I pick up the logbook and shove it into its slot in the kiosk.
The Palazzo notepad we use to leave notes for the next shift slips out, and I lean down to pick it up, glancing at the last note someone scrawled across the top sheet. I freeze, and blood drains from my face.
I tear it from the pad and read the sentence over and over again. I hold it up so Patrick can read it, my knuckles white from clenching the paper so tightly. “Did you write this?” My voice barely squeezes through my throat.
