8. Cora
Cora
I spend my wedding night alone. Wrapped in a hotel robe, I sleep fitfully on the bridal suite’s sumptuous bed.
My suitcase with my toiletries and pajamas had been delivered to the honeymoon suite’s bedroom that morning, I’d seen it on the luggage rack.
But I’d neglected to move it here, a rare and foolish lack of planning on my part, because I’m not going back for it now.
I would rather sleep naked in the lobby than enter the room where Brady’s sleeping.
Even though I find a packaged sleep mask and wear it to bed, I wake up to a blaze of sunlight through my eyelids. I must’ve flung the mask off with all my tossing and turning.
Giving up on getting any real rest, I brew myself coffee and hop in the shower. The provided toiletries are as high-end as everything else in this suite, ten times nicer than anything in my apartment. Slipping back into luxury is as easy as slipping into a clean hotel robe.
The coffee’s ready by the time I emerge from the bathroom. I pour myself a mug and wrap my hands around it until my palms burn.
“Thought I smelled coffee,” Brady says.
I jump, spilling coffee down the front of my once-pristine white robe.
Nothing about this suite feels pristine anymore now that he’s here.
Beneath the scalding water of the shower, I’d been able to forget about this whole fucked-up situation.
But with my husband leaning imperiously in the doorway between our suites, it all comes crashing back.
“Good morning,” he says, annoyingly upbeat.
He’s wearing black sweatpants and nothing else, his waistband so low I can see the V-line of his abs.
When I drag my gaze up to his face, he’s smirking, as usual.
I feel myself flush and I turn away. The designer coffee maker is suddenly the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen. Brady chuckles.
“Can I have a cup?”
“I only made one.” I take my half-spilled coffee over toward the wall of windows.
When I pass Brady on his way to the coffee maker, he moves deliberately close.
I slip sideways. I do not look at his rippling abs, nor his sculpted shoulders, nor his smattering of dark tattoos across his body, that I’m absolutely not curious about.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
“This room is too cold,” I tell him, my back turned.
The pink-gold of the Chicago morning spreads out before me, gilded silhouettes of skyscrapers that I barely register.
“You could’ve come to my bed,” he says. “I would’ve kept you warm.”
I turn to face him, and immediately regret it. He’s leaning back against the counter, casually gripping its edge. The pose flexes his muscles in all the right places, and I swear his sweatpants now sit even lower on his hips. I force myself to meet his gray-green eyes.
“I told you I won’t be sleeping with you.”
“I thought you meant that figuratively.”
“I meant it in every sense.”
He evaluates me for a long moment. I’m fairly certain I cinched my robe tight, and that not much of my cleavage is showing. But the way Brady’s looking at me, I may as well be naked. I plant my feet a little wider to stand my ground. I’m proud of my body.
Most importantly, it’s mine.
The coffee maker chimes that it’s ready. When Brady turns away to pour his mug, I let out the breath I’ve been holding.
Mug in hand, he saunters over to join me at the window, and together we look out at the city side by side. Brady’s not quite invading my space, but he’s close enough that I feel his overwhelming presence.
I sip my coffee. It’s the richest I’ve had in a decade, smooth in a way that pairs perfectly with the glowing morning. I’m doing my best to remain as prickly as possible, but the scene is too peaceful.
Brady turns to face me. I can tell he’s waiting for me to face him too, but from the corner of my eye, I see the blurred version of his body lit golden in the sunlight. I don’t need to see that head-on.
“Breakfast should be here soon,” he says. “I wasn’t sure what you like, so I ordered everything.” He sounds proud of himself, as if ordering room service is an accomplishment.
“That’s wasteful,” I say curtly.
For the past ten years, I’ve been on my own financially, rebuilding my life from scratch.
Need-based financial aid helped considerably, as did spending less time in school through grueling accelerated programs. But with limited hours for my minimum-wage waitressing jobs, money was laughably scarce compared to what I’d grown up with.
I learned to scrimp wherever I could. The dingiest apartments with too many roommates, thrift stores for clothes, taking home the restaurant’s mistake orders for food.
And not wasting any of it.
Brady goes quiet, as if he’s actually considering my words. From what I’ve gleaned online, Cormac and Orla’s empire didn’t take off until several years after Brady was born, and they’d built everything from the ground up. Brady probably spent his early childhood not knowing wealth.
For a moment, I find that likelihood endearing.
Then I remind myself I don’t care.
“We’ll donate whatever you don’t want,” he says. “There’s a food pantry that our restaurants contribute to daily.”
My heart gives a strange flutter at this, and I tell it to shut up.
When the food arrives, Brady doesn’t let the server inside the room. He uses his large frame to barricade the doorway, and I suspect he’s doing so to block the server’s view of me in my robe. When Brady tips, the server thanks him profusely, a male voice. Suspicion confirmed.
I roll my eyes at his stupid jealousy as Brady wheels the cart to the round table by the window. I sit in the best chair to give myself the view of the city. The sun’s getting almost painfully bright, but I’d rather look at it than at Brady’s distracting muscles.
He asks me what my breakfast preferences are, getting ready to plate me whatever I want. I tell him I can serve myself, thank you.
I try to seem unimpressed with the magnificent spread. This is Brady’s doing on some level, since he’s the one in charge of the hotels. I refuse to stroke his ego by admiring anything. But even by my Boston standards, this smorgasbord is an opulent feast.
Feigning disinterest, I select a croissant and some fruit. Though I consider the strawberries, I imagine that eating them in front of Brady would be entirely too suggestive. I plate myself a stem of plump grapes instead.
I dig in without waiting for him. It’s petty and rude, and—Oh. I moan in surprise.
There’s a river of melted chocolate inside my croissant, silky and rich. And the pastry itself is flaky and buttery and delicious. I dab my mouth with my napkin as I regain myself, sneaking a look at Brady to see if he noticed.
Of course he did. He’s smiling at me, the broadest grin I’ve seen from him.
“Good?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say simply, resorting to petty and rude.
His smile slips like it was never there, and he cuts aggressively into his lean steak. Unreasonably, I find myself missing his grin. Not just the sight of his perfect teeth, but the emotion I’d elicited from him, all with a simple moan of satisfaction.
“It’s so good it’s sinful,” I hear myself say. And though I didn’t intend to extend an olive branch this morning, when Brady’s lips twitch in amusement, I don’t regret it.