Chapter 8 – Braelyn
brAELYN
Ican’t believe I’m doing this. Even as the lyrics to Fergie’s “Glamorous” about flying first class play through my head and I dance along.
I ain’t got no money and I should take my broke ass home, but Roman is leading this charge and for reasons beyond my comprehension, I’m letting him.
Probably because I’m a wounded bird and hurt and fucking angry.
Over the weekend, Skylar and Quinn came over, and we took over the pool and sundeck area of Roman’s place.
They brought me champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries—my favorites—and we played loud music and sang and swam, and it was so great.
Hayes, Forest, and Crew were also over, but they hung out with Roman in the media room as our space was a no-dick zone.
But how did this happen? How did I have a no-dick-zone party with my girls, and how am I on a flight to Las Vegas now? A week ago, I was putting the finishing details on my wedding. Now I’m descending into Sin City with Roman, running from the wreckage of my engagement.
My eyes are glued to the oval window as I finish off the last of my champagne, taking in the Vegas Strip and the jagged mountains in the distance.
Roman sleeps beside me, his face slack and peaceful in a way it never is when he’s awake.
The cut below his eye is nearly healed, and I resist the urge to trace it with my finger to feel its rough texture.
The flight attendant glides by, murmuring about our imminent landing and how Roman needs to put his seat up. I nudge him lightly with my elbow, and his eyes briskly snap open.
“Sorry,” I apologize since I clearly startled him. “We’re here, and they want you to put your seat up.”
He stretches, his knuckles brushing the cabin ceiling, and I try not to look when his shirt rides up. He shifts and presses the button to bring his seat up before he moves closer to me, rubbing a hand over his face and scratching at his stubble.
“Did you sleep at all?” he asks, peeking out the window as he leans half over me.
“No. Too busy enjoying the free alcohol while contemplating my life choices and debating my future.”
His lips quirk up. “Come up with anything good?”
“Only that I’m going to go with the flow for once. I’m going to relax and have fun and not overthink or wallow.”
“Wallowing and overthinking are overrated.” He takes my empty glass and hands it to the passing attendant with a nod of thanks. “Trust me. I’m an expert.”
Hard to argue that. Even if his wallowing and overthinking made him a masterclass chef, mine will likely only earn me puffy eyes and an ice cream addiction.
“Has he been calling and texting you?” I’m not sure why I ask other than when Roman met me outside the apartment after we moved me out, he was visibly troubled.
The man is a tank. Solid and strong and impenetrable.
Except inside is a lot of darkness, and the vulnerable, human spot he fights to keep concealed.
His people are his weakness, and Adam is one of his people.
“Yes,” he says simply.
“You gonna finally tell me about it?”
He angles toward me. “I’m positive you can guess. He wants you back, and he’s putting pressure on me to help him do that.”
I thought so. “What’s your hot take on that?”
He sighs and looks out the window instead of at me. “I already told you. You’re my girl. But that doesn’t mean I’m not feeling a ton of guilt right now. For a lot of reasons.”
I decide to let it go because he clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, and as long as he’s with me on this, then we’re good.
We land with a few gentle bumps, and then Roman takes my hand as we exit the plane, navigating us through the terminal with familiarity. The moment we reach our baggage carousel, there’s a man in a black suit holding a sign with Fritz printed in block letters.
“I would have paid for the Uber,” I murmur out of the side of my mouth.
He ignores that as we greet the man. “Morning, Jordan. Good to see you.” The two shake hands.
“Good morning, Mr. Fritz. Welcome back to Las Vegas.”
“Thank you. This is Braelyn. I picked her up on the airplane and thought she might be fun to hang out with while I’m here,” he tells him with a completely straight face. “I think we should give her the full Vegas Strip tour.”
Jordan doesn’t even blink. “Sounds good, sir. I’ll go retrieve your bags.”
The moment the driver leaves us for the conveyor belt, I smack Roman’s shoulder, making him crack up.
“I am not your whore.”
“Not yet, but the day is young, and you are so lovely.”
“Oh my god, shut up!” Then something occurs to me. “Wait, is that something you’ve done before? Picked up women and kept them as pets while you were here?”
“No. You can be my first. I’ll buy you a pretty diamond collar and everything.” He winks at me, thoroughly amused, and an odd heat crawls over me that I immediately shake away. “Come on. Let’s go tell Jordan which bag is yours.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in the back of the black SUV, driving up the Strip.
Massive hotels rise like fever dreams, one after the other, each more insane than the last. Vegas light hits differently.
The sun is brighter here than it is at home.
The sky is a more vivid blue. Then there are the giant billboards and flashing lights.
One in particular with my friend’s face on it.
He’s got to be at least ten stories high, wearing his white chef’s coat with his name stitched in bold over his heart.
The image morphs to a picture of what I’m assuming is the inside of Decision, followed by a few dishes that make my stomach growl.
I shake his arm and point, making him lean over me to glance out the window, our cheeks practically touching, and his scent all over me.
Wood, leather, smoke, and gasoline.
It should be off-putting, but on him, it’s anything but.
“Dude! That’s so freaking cool!”
He chuckles and turns to meet my eyes, our noses somehow brushing as he does.
My breath hitches, but he doesn’t move away.
His eyes are locked with mine and his smile slips.
Suddenly my heart is pounding. I can’t breathe.
My mind spins. And for one moment of pure insanity and nonsensical curiosity, I think about what it would feel like if I closed the inches and pressed my lips to his.
Would they be as soft and supple as they look or firm and dominating as I imagine he is in every other way?
Thankfully, the moment is broken as we turn into a long, sweeping drive that leads to a side entrance of a hotel in the center of the Strip.
I make a mental note to watch it with the drinking since it has to be the champagne on the flight that had me thinking that way.
Because wow. I was just thinking about kissing Roman.
Clearly, I’m a mess because I should not be thinking about how my best friend kisses or what it would feel like.
Before our doors even open, staff have materialized, opening the trunk and removing our luggage. A woman greets us, all smiles, and welcomes us as she shakes Roman’s hand and then mine.
“Welcome, Mr. Fritz. We’re honored to have you staying with us.
” She walks us into a small, marble lobby with crystal chandeliers and obscure glass pieces.
“We have the two-bedroom villa your assistant requested. The suite is sixty-five hundred square feet and includes an in-suite workout facility, a massage room, a dry sauna, a private hair salon, a private kitchen, a formal dining room, a full bar stocked to your preferences, a dual gas fireplace, and a gorgeous private terrace and garden with a pool and whirlpool.”
I’m trying not to have my mouth hang open, but it drops another centimeter with everything she says.
Holy shit. Roman takes it all in stride, and while most of the time I don’t think about the disparities in our socioeconomic situations, right now, it’s impossible not to.
Where most people are simply visiting or splurging on the trip of a lifetime, Roman belongs here and eases in with cool confidence and grace.
His hand meets my lower back, and he turns to catch my expression. “You okay?” he mouths.
“This is just… a lot.”
He leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. “You’ve been on vacations with my family. You’re staying in my place. You know what my grandparents’ estate and megayacht are like. And Adam might not be a Fritz, but his family has money.”
“I know.” But those things were already in place and not for me. This feels like he’s doing it for me, and that sits oddly with me.
“Don’t say no, okay? I want to spoil you. Let me have some fun with it.”
The woman catches his attention before I can respond, talking about reservations and tables at a club and all kinds of things I’m already lost to.
An attendant leads us over to our villa and gives us a tour, informing us that our things will be unpacked and put away for us.
This place is enormous. It’s like three times the size of my apartment and that’s not an exaggeration.
Then again, it’s like half the size of Roman’s penthouse so maybe I should just chill out already.
The attendant leaves us with an “Enjoy your stay and please don’t hesitate to reach out to us for anything we can do to make it perfect.” I collapse onto a silk-embroidered sofa, my ass digging into the down cushions, and try not to choke when I watch Roman hand him a couple of hundreds.
“You tip well.”
“I appreciate their help and all they did to switch up my room at the last minute.”
I give him a look. “This is obscene.”
“Braelyn, you’ve grown up with my family. What’s up?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. This is different. Your condo is yours. This is…” I trail off, gesturing toward the overwhelming luxury surrounding us. “You guys don’t normally spend your big dollars on me and never like this.”