CHAPTER 11 Millie Monroe
So Fake
My chest aches as I glance around. Some people are looking at us, or at least it feels that way, and I can’t help but wonder if anyone recognized him.
He was wearing a hat and sunglasses, and it’s not like he has any distinct tattoos that would set him apart from any other guy here with washboard abs and the face of a god.
I don’t think anyone knows I just got put in my place by an all-star pro baseball player apparently here to lay low after his suspension that I pretended to play dumb about.
What a disappointment. I felt some strong feelings for that man, but now he hates me, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.
I feel sad. Too sad to sit out here with people staring at me like some sort of lunatic.
I just want to gather up my belongings and head inside to sulk in private, but I don’t get that luxury. Not when I’m supposed to be experiencing this resort. I can’t just go hide out in my room.
I give myself five minutes. I lie back on the lounge chair as if I didn’t just get reamed out by Archer Bradley, and I sit and let my head do the sulking.
And then I get back to work. I check my live, but I shut off my phone as soon as it ended, so I didn’t post it to my feed in time.
I check my post from this morning with photos of the lobby and my drink from last night, along with sunrise yoga and breakfast, and they’re all doing fine with an average amount of engagement. Nothing spectacular yet, and I’ll have to figure out something exciting to post to get my numbers moving.
I meant to save my live so I could cross-post it to YouTube, but I guess I got a little thrown off when Archer Bradley stopped in front of me to yell at me, those abs rippling like a goddamn wave in front of my face.
God, he’s hot.
God, I want him. Just one more night. Is that too much to ask? I’d even take hate sex at this point. Imagine how hot that would be with Archer Bradley.
I take some B-roll video footage around the pool along with some still photos, and eventually I go up to my room to take a shower.
I make a reservation at the steakhouse in this tower for dinner after I learned my lesson last night, and then I head out to explore.
I spend about five minutes in the casino—one of the few parts of my trip not funded by the resort—and lose twenty dollars almost immediately.
I can’t take photos in there, but I still felt the need to experience it at least once. And now I’m good.
I walk through the mall in the Coast Tower and find a restaurant to eat lunch, and afterward, I do a little shopping.
I snap a few photos of the stores I saunter into.
I check the price tags, and these are most decidedly not beer budget prices.
I even check the sale rack only to find the “sale” price on a beautiful floral dress is only about five dollars off the regular price—still a steep two hundred bucks.
I’ll pass since anything I purchase, aside from food and activities, is also not funded by the resort.
I try to find something, anything, that I could buy on my budget, but even the freaking pens cost eighteen dollars apiece. Eighteen dollars. For a pen. I’ll just snag the one off my nightstand for that price. It comes with stationery, too.
I head up to my room to edit a few of the photos I took on my afternoon adventure, and eventually, it’s time to head down to dinner.
And wouldn’t you know it? Sexy calves are right in front of me at the check-in desk for the second night in a row.
I don’t say a word, instead choosing to let him enjoy his dinner without even knowing I’m here, but we’re definitely on the same schedule—and it’s fate at work, too, since we both chose the same restaurants our first two nights here.
But even though my intentions are good in trying to stay out of sight from him for now, the hostess who seats me did not get that memo.
She seats me at a table directly beside his.
The restaurant is crowded, and our tables are about three feet apart—far enough for a server to squeeze through if needed, but close enough that I can smell that same soap and mint and whiskey scent that’s all him.
We’re across from each other. Surely he will notice me any second.
My thighs clench together as I sit because of course they do. Dammit.
All I can think about is last night.
It’s causing heat to climb up my spine and into my neck.
It’s causing a pull in my stomach.
It’s making me hungry for something that food won’t satisfy.
I clear my throat and don’t dare look over at the table beside me. I’m waiting to see if he notices. Waiting for him to make the first move. Waiting for something, but I’m not quite sure what.
A server stops at his table first to get his drink order, and that’s when I feel his eyes on me. My face is flaming, so it must be as red as the red cloth napkins adorning each table.
He orders his meal, too, and the same server turns to me next. “Welcome, ma’am. Are you waiting for another person?”
I grit my teeth together as I wonder why the server didn’t ask Archer that same question. “No.”
“Wonderful. Might I interest you in one of our signature spicy margaritas or perhaps a vivid merlot?”
“I’ll try the spicy margarita, and I’d like the filet medium.”
“A great choice. I’ll have your drink out to you shortly.”
I mutter a thanks and hand my menu over, and then I take my phone out so I have something to look at aside from the table next door.
“Checking how many likes your last post got?” he asks, interrupting my doom scroll.
I offer a smirk. “As a matter of fact, I’m fielding new offers from brands sliding into my DMs after checking out my live this morning.”
He raises both brows, less impressed and leaning more toward sarcastic, but I note that he doesn’t pull his phone out despite being here by himself.
I set my phone down, too, and I’m about to try a different angle of conversation with him when the server comes by with a whiskey for Archer and my spicy margarita.
I think about holding my glass up in a toast with him, trying to find something nice to say to get back on his good side, but instead, I do what I’m here to do.
I pick my phone back up and take photos of my drink.
I feel his eyes on me. I finally glance over at him only to see he’s actually rolling those eyes.
“What?” I snap.
“You gonna go live with that drink?”
“What’s it to you if I do?” I challenge.
“It’s so fake.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, my brows drawing together as he manages to ignite my rage.
“Social media. It’s all a bunch of bullshit. Everyone’s highlights. Nothing real.”
“Have you bothered to look at my socials?” I ask.
“I’ve seen you take a photo of every drink you’ve been served. I heard you on your little live thing earlier at the pool. Now I know why you’re here at this resort, and it’s enough to know it’s a big fucking show.”
“If you heard my live, then you heard me start by saying viewers should excuse my appearance since I was still slightly hungover and stayed up far too late having the night of my life, but I suppose you didn’t catch that particular reality.”
He rolls his eyes again, and it makes me want to pick up my spicy marg and toss it in his face.
My hands clench into balled-up fists as rage slices through me. He doesn’t know the first goddamn thing about me aside from the face I make when I come, and he’s making assumptions based on…what? His own experience with women?
“You’re right. I didn’t catch that. The only reality I caught was the fact that yet one more person deceived me. One more person made me believe one thing only for the disappointing truth to come out.” He moves to a stand, picks up his whiskey, and tosses his napkin on the table. “Excuse me.”
He walks out of the restaurant, says something to the hostess, and disappears from my view.
I chug my margarita and order a second one.
So he’s been deceived. So he thinks I’m like everyone else.
I’m not.
I didn’t mention I knew who he was because I didn’t want to seem like just another fangirl. If I really wanted to “use him” for my blog, I could’ve snapped his picture while he was sleeping. I could’ve gone live from his hotel room. There are any number of things I could have done, but I didn’t.
For a lot of reasons.
For one, I respect his consent.
For another, there was a real connection there.
What I do is important. I’m helping people. I’m putting good, wholesome content out into the world. I’m documenting my own adventures, sure, and I’m creating my own sort of digital scrapbook of my travels.
But I’m also helping my followers plan luxury trips affordably. I’m showing features they might never have known about and giving them their own escape as I share my joy and love of traveling. I get to do something I love, and I’ve almost turned it from an expensive hobby into a career.
I built something out of nothing. I’ve learned a lot, and I’ve made smart decisions along the way. But maybe most importantly, this is the life I chose. It’s more than just a career choice. It’s my entire identity at this point.
And now it will become my mission to prove to him that what I do is important.