22. Scarlett
Scarlett
The moment the kiss ends, the night begins.
The band kicks it into high gear with folky rock music, perfect for dancing the night away. Champagne bottles pop, and everyone is sipping and laughing, eating and chatting.
Morgan is working the room with me at his side, and I can’t help but feel a little like a celebrity. Everyone either wants to congratulate us, pine over us, or take a photo of us.
I have to remind myself that it’s all good content for the blogs for Bale and my page.
Still, I’m not really used to this kind of attention. Not at this level, and certainly not on the arm of a billionaire resort owner with a ring on my finger.
Which, by the way, is unrealistically gorgeous.
I was surprised when I saw it, if I am being honest. I expected a rock the size of Jupiter, sparkling up at me like some sort of mounted disco ball.
What I was not expecting was an understated amethyst on a dainty yet detailed hammered gold band that is both unique and timeless.
In a word? Rare. And so much more my style.
Not that it matters. Because it’s not mine. Not forever anyways.
But I’m not thinking about that right now. Right now, I’m thinking about–
“Are you hungry?” Morgan asks as he whisks me away from a crowd of people after patiently giving them photo ops and letting them see the ring.
“Starving,” I admit. Because honestly, with all the craziness, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. And I think it’s safe to say the avocado toast did not suffice for a day’s worth of food, even if the post was beautiful.
“Me too,” Morgan admits before tugging me in and out of the tables. But just as we approach the buffet of food, he pulls a hard right and we head away from it in the opposite direction.
“Um, I think the food was that way,” I tell him, using my free hand to thumb over my shoulder.
“Yeah well, we are going to eat in the kitchen,” he says, and I’m a little confused.
“Shouldn’t we eat with the guests? For content and face and all the things?” I ask. Even though I’m not really in the mood for any more of that right now. I’d love to eat a shrimp cocktail without someone taking a photo of me with a mouth full of seafood.
“No. We have more important people to share this meal with,” Morgan tells me as we walk into the back of the kitchen, and for a moment, my heart sinks.
More important people imply suits and ties.
Which implies I have to put my influencer face back on in place of my hungry enough to eat the table itself face.
Surprisingly, there’s no one back here except the kitchen staff, who are all sitting in a circle eating their own dinner.
“Hey boss,” a short man with light brown skin and the warmest smile I’ve ever seen says.
“Hey Rafael,” Morgan addresses him by name while grabbing a couple of plates and loading them up with a little of everything. “Mind if we join you?”
Join them? Morgan wants to eat with the kitchen staff?
It doesn’t bother me. Actually, I find it quite enduring. It’s just a little surprising is all. Although I’d be lying if I said Morgan isn’t making a pattern of surprising me recently.
“Please,” Rafael motions to us while two of the cooks pull up a couple of crates for us to sit on. We take a seat, and Morgan hands me my plate; I chuckle.
“Sorry, Miss,” Rafael smiles at me. “Our dinner table isn’t the fanciest, but we like to think we are the best company.”
“I think it’s perfect,” I tell him, scooping up some shrimp ceviche and savoring it. “A private dining experience.”
The rest of the staff smiles and continues to eat, not bothered at all that their Ralph Lauren sporting boss is eating with them.
“I’ve seen you on Instagram,” another man with tattooed arms and an earring says. His voice is down to earth and kind. “You’ve eaten cuisine from all around the world.”
“I have.” I smile, taking another bite.
“And how do we stack up?” Rafael asks.
“Top notch,” I say, and they all grin, some of them even blushing a little.
“Even if the chairs leave something to be desired?” a girl asks while knocking on the crate she’s sitting on.
“Listen, it’s not the first time I’ve eaten an extraordinary meal prepared by locals while sitting on a box of exotic fruit,” I say, taking another bite.
“That is…wildly specific.” Morgan nods, making everyone laugh.
“And yet completely true,” I tell him, and this time, I am the one winking.
After we’ve finished eating, the staff has to get to work cleaning things up.
I make a point of taking a photo with them.
I low-key took a couple while we were eating, laughing, and talking to Morgan.
I thank them all for what will most likely hold first place for the best dinner of the trip, no matter how many more dinners we have in our travels.
“That was fun,” I tell Morgan as he uses his free hand to unlock the door of our suite.
“Which part?” he asks as we walk inside, still holding hands.
“All of it,” I tell him. “The music. The sunset, the lights, and the food. Definitely the food. I didn’t know you hung out with your staff.”
“I don’t usually,” he says, tossing his things on the counter and slipping out of his shoes.
I have to force myself not to stare as he untucks and unbuttons his shirt, letting it hang open.
His hard, carved abdomen on display. “But I think that’s part of the problem.
I never go to the resorts. Not like they did.
And I doubt when Conrad goes he gives two shits about the kitchen staff. Which is a failure in my opinion.”
I can’t help but focus on one particular part of that sentence.
Not like they did.
I know enough to know he is talking about his parents. But I’ve also learned that Jeff and Tamara Bale are a touchy subject. Whatever happened all those years ago is something Morgan keeps locked away. And right now is not the time to go deep-diving into difficult subjects.
Right now I am happy, buzzing from the events of the evening. Right now, the room feels small with him standing in it. He smells like musk and pine and something sweet, and I can’t stop staring at his body behind the open shirt.
“Well, you aren’t failing, that’s for sure,” I tell him, and Morgan’s eyes meet mine. Then, as he watches me flop onto the bed on my stomach, his brow furrows. “Please tell me you’re not working,” he says. “I give you permission to be off the clock.”
“Just one post,” I say as I make a compilation of photos from the night, including the ones of him with the kitchen staff.
I want to make a regular post of the events of the evening, minus the proposal first. Because even though that announcement is going to break the internet, I don’t want it to outshine everything else.
The real events happening. The real Morgan. Unfiltered, unfaked, uncontracted.
“There,” I say, tossing my phone aside and resting my head with a sigh. “I think I’ve earned a spa day,” I murmur.
“Oh?” Morgan asks, and I can feel him climbing onto the bed. My heart dancing inside my chest.
“Yes,” I answer, attempting to play it cool. Like I’m not affected by him sitting next to me on the king-sized bed.
“Well, I’ll make sure to book a spa day for you at the next resort. But for now…” Morgan’s words taper off, and his hands find me.
At first, it’s only his fingertips, gently sweeping my hair from my back to reveal my shoulders. The whisper of touch is enough to send a prickle of a shiver down my body. Then his hands clasp warmly over my shoulders, and he begins to massage.
“Oh…” I let out, unable to stifle the moan. But God does that feel good. Good enough to make me cry. I just close my eyes and melt into his kneading as Morgan massages every tense muscle in my shoulders and upper back.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice gravelly and low, like the bottom register of a guitar, strumming over my nerves with every word.
“You have no idea,” I tell him.
He continues to massage for another minute or so before stopping. And for a moment, I think he’s done. Until–
“You know what would make this better?” he asks.
“What’s that?” I ask, and there goes my heart again, flip-flopping around in anticipation.
“If you took this off.” I can feel him tugging on the hem of my dress. And while I know where this is most likely headed, I honestly have no desire to stop it. Nothing has ever felt as good as this man’s hands on my body.
“I think you might be right,” I answer, and he slips his fingers under the strapless hem, tugging it down over my breasts, my hips and then all the way off, leaving me in nothing but a pair of powder pink, satin, seamless panties.
And even though I am lying on my stomach still, I swear I can feel his eyes running over my exposed curves.
Then he says the last thing I am expecting.
“I’ll be back.”
Be back? Where in the world could he possibly be going?
But before I can question it too much, he reappears and a moment later I feel warm oil on my spine along with the scent of bergamot.
“It may not be the E-suite, but it does have its perks,” he says as he massages the oil in. “Oils, soaps, lotions, candles.”
“Mm,” I respond because, honestly, it’s all I can manage right now. His hands glide over me with more ease now, up to my shoulders, down to the elastic of my panties. Then, his fingertips slide inside them, over the curve of my hips and butt, lower with each stroke.
Naturally, my thighs part in response to his touch. I can tell he wants to be rid of the panties altogether, so I slip them off, tossing them aside.
“You read my mind,” he says in a gritty voice. And before I can make a joke about just how dirty my mind is right now, his hands find me again, gliding from the top of my ass, over the curve of it and down between my legs.
“Oh…” I moan softly as his fingers run down and around the length of me before gliding back up. He does it again, more slowly this time but with more pressure, his fingers finding nerves they missed the first time, and my hips raise slightly into his touch.
Again and again, he strokes me, each time he unravels me a little more than the last. Yet, he makes a point of not quite giving me what I want with each touch. What I really need. Until he kisses the back of my neck and growls into my skin and says, “roll over.”