Chapter 33
thirty-three
I’ve never slept at a man’s place before, so I can’t be certain…
But I’m pretty sure it isn’t normal to wake up to a gift.
By the time I stagger into Marco’s kitchen, his condo is still and silent. Given that I can’t even catch a whiff of his cologne, I’m guessing he left well before the sun came up.
Part of me is relieved, at first. This situation feels so awkward—I barely had half a day to wrap my head around this man wanting me in any capacity… and now he won’t let me leave?
Should that make me giddy or nauseous?
Split the difference?
My mouth dries when I find the things he left on the counter beside his stove. A teapot, a mug… and this gorgeous silver gift box.
The note on top is undeniably from him. Bold, slashing, and masculine.
Good morning, sweet girl—
to make up for flattening you in the hallway yesterday, I left you a present this morning.
The wrapping looks… sensuous. And expensive. I turn the metallic box in my hands, admiring the black satin ribbon around it.
The second I touch it, I know it cost him a pretty penny. The fabric is thick and luxurious. A subtle damask pattern textures the iridescent cardboard. When I see the label emblazoned on the box underneath the paper, my heart stutters.
Agent Provocateur.
Most decidedly not a casual gift between friends.
With a thick throat and a pulse in my core, I sift through the tissue, unearthing a delicate silk robe. The fabric slides right through my fingers, as thin and fine as a cool breeze. Handmade lace adorns each sleeve, its meticulous loops forming frothy floral patterns.
I’ve never been given anything so exquisite or luxurious. Not to mention sexy.
I don’t know what it means. But I know I love it.
My cheeks hurt from grinning when the phone in my hoodie buzzes. I jump, fishing it out with my heart thumping all the way to my fingertips.
Marco Amir, the screen reads.
My lungs feel fluttery as I stammer, “H-hello?”
I hear a smile in his voice. “Hi,” he says. “Good morning.”
“It certainly is,” I giggle, gazing down at my present. “I’ve never woken up to a gift before. It’s… too beautiful for words, Marco. Truly. Thank you so much.”
Satisfaction warms his reply. “It was my privilege. I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it,” I emphasize, still unsure how to adequately express my gratitude. “I—I don’t think I’ve ever owned anything so lovely. I want to put it in Plexiglas and hang it on my wall.”
The moment the words escape, I hang my head, mortified. Oh dear Lord.
Then I remember the cameras—he can see me—and blush all over again.
But Marco’s heated chuckle sends a shiver down my spine. “Don’t do that,” he murmurs, a low rasp tickling my ear. “Then I won’t be able to see you in it.”
I nearly gulp. “O-okay.”
“Maybe tonight,” he says casually, as if the idea doesn’t make me ache. “In the meantime, how about dinner later? I can pick something up and bring it home after work. Anything you want.”
As Tris would say: my flabbers are gasted.
Is this man real? Did I actually wake up this morning?
“W-whatever you like is fine,” I peep.
“Hmm.” He sounds stern. “That won’t work, sweet girl. Because I want whatever you want.”
I have to bite my lip to keep from grinning like a loon. “Maybe Chinese?”
I hear him smiling, too. “Exactly what I wanted.”
With a giggle, I swipe out of the call and into my planning app. “Just let me check my calendar.”
The iCal app looks clear, but a message leaps from the bottom of my screen, displaying the one name that sinks my stomach. Hovering over a single text.
We’ll speak tonight at 6.
“What’s wrong?” Marco asks, sensing my anxiety. Or possibly seeing it. “You okay?”
“I-I’m fine,” I lie. “No big deal.”
“For the love of fuck,” Tris moans, “you have got to calm down. You look like a cartoon character. Is your head about to spin off in an animated cloud of smoke, Alley Cat?”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap, adjusting the angle of my phone. “How about now? Can you still tell I’m not at home?”
Tris blinks, wide-eyed, then winces. “Babe, that place is like the Fortress of Solitude. There’s no way she’ll think that’s our apartment.”
I know she’s right. My mother has eyes like a hawk. If I dared to move an end table in my living room, she would have something to say about it.
Tris has confirmed that our apartment is still surrounded by media leeches, though. She tried to go home after work and wound up heading back to whichever guy she’s staying with. Which leaves me no choice but to FaceTime Mama from Marco’s condo.
Dejected, I hunch my shoulders with a groan. “She’s going to have a million questions.”
“Bitch, I have a million questions!” Tris chimes. “Like how the hell did you end up in a hostage situation with the city’s sexiest bodyguard? And also, can I come watch?”
I glower, and she laughs at her own joke, adding, “But seriously. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your new robe.”
The humiliating truth is that I’ve worn it all day while working from the enormous, mostly empty apartment. I know I should get dressed like a normal person, but every time I go to change out of it, I hear Marco’s rumbled words.
Maybe tonight.
Still, I can’t wear it for my call with Mama. She will lose her—
“Shit!” I hiss as my screen flickers. “She’s early.”
You know it’s bad when Tris doesn’t have anything funny to say. Her hazel gaze widens. “May God have mercy on your soul, Alice Moore.” Then, before clicking off, “And tell Thundercunt I said hi!”
Shit, shit, shit.
Tris’s call disappears, leaving my mother’s. Ringing.
I make a mental list of things to brace myself for.
Aside from being in a strange man’s apartment, she also hasn’t seen that I changed my hair.
I need to somehow rush her off the call in less than twenty minutes if I want to keep Marco from crossing paths with her.
And I still haven’t decided how to answer if she makes any snide comments about my—nonexistent, as far as she is concerned—dating life.
Little does she know.
Maybe tonight.
Have I mentioned—SHIT?!
Frantic, I run my eyes over the area around me, searching for any scrap that might set Mama off. She will take advantage of anything she sees to lecture me—the title of a romance novel, a new article of clothing in the “wrong” shade, carbs.
I re-angle my phone screen, ensuring she will only see my face and the boring gray wall behind me. Maybe I could say I’m at work? In someone’s office?
… in a robe?
If she only knew that a full-blown single man had it waiting for me this morning.
Doo-dooo-doo-doop-doop-dah-doo. The ringtone skips, then starts up all over again. I jump to answer, knowing that every missed chime will only make Mama more difficult.
Sure enough, as the screen flickers and fills with a view from my mother’s prized black granite kitchen, a perfectly made face scowls back at me.
Once upon a time, my mother was a striking woman. She even won pageants, if the photos on her mantle were to be believed. Nowadays, she wears a lot of makeup and keeps her signature bob shellacked into a helmet of blonde.
At least Richard is out golfing or something.
“Alice Lillian Moore.” Mama’s voice rings through the room, softly Southern and breathy with indignation. “What is going on?”