15. Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
I’m ready to make my peace with Monica.
It’s a sobering and surprising thought to have as I wake up early the next morning in Luka’s arms, my body deliciously achy with a sex hangover from last night.
Yet I feel good about this decision. Whether Monica reciprocates or not, extending the olive branch to her is something I need to do before Luka and I can move forward.
I know I’ll feel better in the long run.
After all, Luka has been completely honest with me about his non-relationship with her, and I want to be able to put my jealousy behind me once and for all.
Climbing on top of Luka, I whisper in his ear, “Are you awake?”
“That depends,” he says, eyes still closed, his voice husky. “On what you have in mind.”
“I was thinking…” I drop a slow kiss on his lips, his jaw, his neck. “We should hit up the breakfast buffet. I’m sure they don’t call it the Bacchanal for nothing.”
“If there’s an actual bacchanal going on down there, I’m not letting you anywhere near that buffet. You’re all mine.”
He pushes me off him, rolling me over onto my back. I let out a squeal as he attacks me with kisses. “But I’m starving! I spent all night doing bedroom aerobics!” I insist. “Don’t you think I’ve earned a meal?”
“That you have,” he says. “So let’s shower up real quick and get down there.”
Both of us are ready to go in twenty minutes, which has to be an all-time speed record.
I slip into a laidback sundress and a lightweight cardigan to stave off the arctic hotel air conditioning, braid my hair, and then apply a swipe of mascara and a sheer bb cream that gives me a sun-kissed glow.
I feel great today. Satiated. Satisfied.
Happy, even. Luka’s forgone his usual formal work suit in favor of a crisp button-down and dress pants. He’s never looked better.
In fact, the lines on his face almost seem softer today. As if he’s completely at ease. I love this relaxed version of my husband, and I hope I can keep him this way.
As we head down in the elevator, our fingers intertwined, I realize that the entire production crew will probably be there, too.
After all, the shoot starts in a few hours and everyone is staying at the same hotel.
Hopefully it will make confronting Monica that much easier—since there’s a much better chance she’ll act civil toward me in a public venue than if I try to approach her during the photo shoot later.
“This is supposed to be the best buffet on the Strip. I can’t wait for the eggs benedict,” I say, practically doing a dance.
Luka smiles. “You checked out the menu already?”
“No. I’ve been too busy checking you out. But it’s a breakfast buffet. Eggs benny is a requirement to get a buffet license.”
This makes him laugh. “I don’t think you’re wrong about that.”
The place is crowded, just as I suspected, but since it’s a weekday we aren’t waiting in line for too long before we get seated in the huge restaurant.
Everything is glass and brushed steel and gleaming floors—and then there’s the food.
It’s lined up around the perimeter of the room as far as the eye can see.
There are at least nine different food stations with chefs preparing items for guests, in addition to the already made dishes that pack the long buffets.
After the waiter takes our drink orders—two coffees—we stand and survey the spread.
“I’m loading up on wagyu beef and then hitting up the seafood bar,” Luka says.
“Good strategy,” I tell him. “I’ll be at the omelet station. Meet you back here in a few.”
With a quick kiss, we’re off in separate directions.
As I wait on line, I spy a familiar shape walking toward me and my heart flips.
“Hey, Monica,” I say, smiling as genuinely as I can. “How are you?”
“Tired,” she answers curtly, her voice coming out scratchy and thin.
She crosses her arms and pointedly turns her head away from me, flashing all the attitude she can muster even with a huge pair of sunglasses disguising her expression.
I hate to judge, but she looks like hell.
Last night’s makeup is still visible on her sallow skin, and she’s in a ratty tank top and sweatpants, giving me the impression that she literally just rolled out of bed. Honestly, I feel bad for her.
“Late night?” I ask gently.
“You don’t want to know.”
This is not how I imagined our confrontation playing out. Here I am, fresh as a daisy and glowing, while my nemesis is slouching sullenly and looking like something the cat dragged in. It makes me feel a little braver that she’s not ignoring me or spitting insults my way per usual.
I clear my throat and say, “You know, I probably should have told you this earlier, but congratulations on the campaign. You really earned it, and I know it’s going to be great.”
Monica says nothing for a moment, and then smirks. “Wow. I almost believe you.”
The line is moving again, and there’s a couple in front of me ordering their eggs now. Time is running out to make peace with Monica, and I don’t want to leave things like this.
“Look,” I say, “I get where you’re coming from.
And yeah, I was really upset at first. I wanted the traction that Maxilene would give my career.
I wanted to be the most valuable asset at Danica Rose for my husband.
But having to spend all that time away from him, and being forced to play the sex kitten for the entire campaign?
I actually don’t want that. I’ve started to realize that a life on the road is only fun if you don’t have someone waiting for you at home. ”
Before she can respond, Luka walks up behind me, wrapping his free arm around my shoulders and kissing the side of my face. “I can’t wait to get home,” he says. I can feel the huge grin lighting up my face. “Rough night?” he asks Monica.
A booming voice calls out, “Miss? What can I get you?”
I ask the chef to please make me an order of eggs benedict with tomato instead of ham and sliced avocado on the side. When I turn back to Luka and Monica, she’s already gone.
There was a time I would have been offended by her disdain, her constant dismissal of me.
But now that I’ve decided to make peace with her, what I feel most is pity.
Despite her looks, fame, and money, at the end of the day, she’s all alone.
Whatever she’s hungry for in life, I genuinely want her to get it. As long as it’s not my husband.
“Where’d she go?” I ask.
“Smoothie bar.” Luka gestures in the direction Monica must have gone and bobs his fork. “Hair and makeup are going to have a hell of time getting her ready for the shoot today.”
“I’m sure she’ll look fabulous,” I say, and I mean it. That woman can’t take a bad photograph if she tries, and a good concealer and soft lighting can do wonders.
“Order up!” the omelet chef announces.
Flashing him a grateful smile, I scoop up my plate and head back to the table with Luka. We’re both in ecstasy over the shrimp and grits, the coffee is excellent, and my eggs benedict might be the best I’ve ever had. When Luka’s watch goes off, we know it’s time to get going.
With his call time approaching for the Maxilene shoot, we head back upstairs to pack up the room. It doesn’t take long to stack our bags at the door, and then Luka calls the bell desk and asks them to send a porter up. We’ll collect the bags later, when we check out after the shoot.
Luka strolls over to the windows and looks out at the view of the Vegas strip below. During the day, it’s a totally different vibe. Almost like a kitschy theme park, rather than a glittering city built for gambling, partying, and booze.
“Let’s play hooky,” he says, turning toward me.
“Are you serious?” I’m a bit taken aback.
This is very unlike my husband. He’s not the type to call out of work. For anything.
“I’ve been here half a week and I’ve had nothing but tedious fourteen-hour days standing around at shoots, and then I fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow. Let’s see the sights.”
I walk over to him and wrap my arms around his neck, searching his gaze as his own arms go tight around my waist.
“What’s going on between us?” I ask quietly.
“I’m not sure.” He takes a moment before speaking again. “But I’d like to find out.”
With that, he lowers his head to press a kiss to my lips. It’s soft, searching, but still searing hot. When we finally part, I nod. “Let’s go.”
“Yes!” Luka shouts, sounding almost like a kid.
Before we embark on our Super Fun Vegas Romp, Luka calls in sick from the shoot, blaming the pile of seafood he scarfed down at the buffet this morning.
Then we’re off, grabbing tacky tourist sunglasses and iced coffees from the shop in the lobby before heading out for a stroll down Las Vegas Blvd.
The desert heat has us ducking into a casino soon enough, and once we recover from the blast of icy air conditioning, we make a beeline for the dealer tables.
“I’ve always wanted to do this, but I’m no good at cards,” I confess to Luka.
“Let’s try our hand at some blackjack,” he suggests. “It’s not too complicated.”
I agree, and we lose a wad of cash pretty quickly, though Luka doesn’t seem to mind. Moving on to craps, it seems like dice games aren’t for us, either…until he asks me to kiss the dice. I refuse, because gross, but blow the dice a kiss instead. And then we win.
A thousand dollars.
Jumping up and down, I yell at Luka, “We won all our money back!” and the crowd around us laughs, including the paparazzo who’s been tailing us since we walked in here.
I beg for a gelato stop, and then we Uber to the Arts District to visit A Little White Chapel and have our picture taken like real tourists.
It seems we’ve been followed by our pesky paparazzo, but I don’t mind.
Flashing the guy a smile and a wave as we duck into a cab afterward, I tumble onto Luka’s lap with a laugh.
“Where you two lovebirds headed?” asks the driver, an older woman with a pixie cut.
Luka looks at me. “Where to?”
With a flash of inspiration and more than a little daring, I say, “Surprise us!”
She punches in an address and we’re off, but we don’t go far. In about fifteen minutes we’re getting out at the Linq Promenade. I can see signs for shopping, bars, restaurants, a zipline, a Himalayan salt cave…I don’t even know where to start, and the afternoon is waning.
“What should we do first?” I ask the driver while Luka pays her.
“Ride the High Roller,” the woman says. “It’s not just a Ferris wheel, it’s an observation wheel. You get 360-degree views from your pod and you can grab a drink at the bar when you get your tickets and bring them on the ride with you.”
“Sounds great,” I say.
But when we get to the ticket counter, we find out that in addition to serving drinks, they’re also giving out free champagne and gourmet chocolate today—so we get to ride the wheel hundreds of feet in the air while nibbling raspberry truffles and caramels with sea salt.
The view is breathtaking, but I don’t look straight down. Neither does Luka. Instead we spend most of our half-hour revolution talking and holding hands, and I don’t mind a bit.
We live it up the rest of the day like true tourists on vacation.
Dinner is at Lakeside in the Wynn, which Luka swears is the best seafood restaurant in town.
Then, totally stuffed, we spend the rest of the evening shopping, eating fancy snacks, and wandering around to walk them off.
I’m not oblivious to the paparazzi in our periphery that seem to always be snapping photos of us, but when Luka asks if I want him to go over and get rid of them, I say no.
“Let them take as many pictures as they want,” I add. “I’m sure your family will be thrilled to find out we’ve been publicly flaunting our relationship.”
“Maybe once we get home, we can flaunt it some more,” Luka teases, pulling me in for a kiss. It’s performative at first, his hands in my hair and on my ass and around my waist, but pretty soon we’re both so into it that I totally forget it’s all for show. He’s that good.
After watching the fake volcano erupt at the Mirage, we head back to Caesar’s to get our bags. I’m completely exhausted by the time we catch our red eye back to Chicago.
As the plane revs down the tarmac for takeoff, Luka muses, “Once those pictures hit social media, I’m going to catch hell for taking a ‘sick day.’”
“Do you regret it?” I ask, my brow furrowing.
“Nah. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he says.
I rest my head against his shoulder and let out a contented sigh. I couldn’t agree more.