The Fortunate Ones

  I’m annoyed that he seems to already know I’ll agree to go with him, and I’m confused about why I want to. Nothing has changed between us. Later on, when I’m alone, I’ll regret my decision, but right now, he’s crowding my space and overriding any sense I might have. My lips still tingle from our kiss, and my heart is still running a marathon.

  He’s standing a few feet from me, and I’m feeling every bit of his commanding presence. Sure, he’s physically intimidating, tall and fit, but it’s more in the way he carries himself, an unspoken confidence that makes it difficult to argue with him. A few weeks ago, he said it would be best if we stayed away from each other, and I complied. Now, he’s inviting me to Vegas and I’m bending to his will without much of a fight.

  That infuriates me.

  But not so much that I won’t go, because then I’d be punishing myself.

  I’ll concede, under one condition.

  “I’ll need my own hotel room.”

  It’s my only way of gaining back some semblance of control.

  He barely manages to stifle a laugh. “Did I not make myself clear before? I want you to come to Vegas with me as my date.”

  “Oh, so you expect me to put out?” I quip. “One kiss and now suddenly you think you’re Casanova? Maybe I need a little more time before I share a bed with you.”

  His dark eyes flame with stifled emotion. He steps toward me, advancing until I’m scared we’ll be right back where we were a minute ago.

  “One room, two beds,” he counters.

  “Two rooms,” I insist, straightening my back in the hopes that I look somewhat resolved. “And just to be clear, I’m only going with you because I haven’t had a vacation in a while.”

  His smirk is so damn conceited I want to slap it off his face. “Oh, that’s it? Anything else?”

  “Yes. I want to lounge by the pool and read a book.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And I want one of those massive volcano drinks.”

  “Brooke…”

  “Oh! And I want to play the slot machines. I love those.”

  “So you’ll come?” he asks, hope brimming in his tone.

  Of course I will. The choice was never mine to make.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I’ve never flown private before, but here I am, sipping champagne with raspberries floating in the glass while cuddled under the softest throw blanket I’ve ever felt. The interior of the plane is the color of wealth: beige and tan with wood trim. Boring and elegant equals money and class, I guess.

  James picked me up from the co-op at 4:45 AM looking sharp in jeans and a sweater. I instantly regretted my comfy lounge clothes, but I’m not someone who likes to travel in style. I assumed we would be taking a commercial flight, so I wore yoga pants and a sweatshirt. As we boarded the small plane, the flight attendant made it abundantly clear that she was confused by my attire. Her gaze swooped over me and I was dismissed within a half-second as unworthy of the James Ashwood. I don’t necessarily disagree, but I’m here, and the champagne tastes amazing, so what do I care?

  “A little more, please,” I say with a broad smile.

  As she tops me off, I think back to how Ellie and Marissa took the news when I told them where I was going. I would rather have kept it a secret, but I needed them to cover my shifts at Twin Oaks for the next three days. Marissa thought I was lying just to get out of work until Ellie corroborated the fact that I’ve been spending time with James lately.

  “YOU LITTLE MINX!” were Marissa’s exact words.

  I smiled and shrugged as she tried to pry details out of me. While I had to tell her about Vegas, there was no reason to go into the complicated dynamic of mine and James’ relationship, or lack thereof.

  My gaze slides across the aisle to where he’s typing away on his laptop. This is a work trip for him. He’s made that clear, and I refuse to play the role of whiny brat, so I sip my champagne and try not to bother him. I do, however, take in his profile while I think he’s focused on replying to an email. He’s clean-shaven, which makes it easier for me to detect the muscles clenching in his jaw as he types away on his computer. Whatever he’s dealing with, it’s frustrating him. I want to ask about it, but I’m scared he’ll shoot me down.

  “I can feel you watching me,” he says while continuing to type.

  I smile and glance away, happy just to be in this environment with him. There’ve been many nights in the last few weeks where I lay awake wondering what James was up to, what it would feel like to be in his presence again. It’s interesting just to see what a day in the life is like for a man like him, someone in charge of an empire.

  We’ve been in the air for an hour, and I don’t think his fingers have stopped typing once. It sounds like he’s competing in a Mavis Beacon contest. The pitter-patter of the keys becomes white noise as I turn on my Kindle and return to my book.

  “What are you reading?” he asks sometime later, and I realize with a start that he’s been watching me read.

  “Just a bunch of business and finance textbooks,” I say with mock seriousness. “I want to be useful on this trip.”

  “What are you really reading?”

  I smile and show him. “It’s a book of essays by Samantha Irby.”

  “They must be funny.”

  I furrow my brow. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’ve been watching you smile to yourself for the last 20 minutes.”

  I guess two can play the sneaky staring game.

  “She’s one of the funniest writers I’ve ever read. It’s worth a read when you have the time.” His gaze swoops pointedly to his laptop and I chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you probably don’t get much reading done.”

  I think back to the worn paperback sitting on the table back at his house.

  “Not much time for fun,” he admits.

  The flight attendant steps forward from the galley to announce that we’re 30 minutes from our destination. James stands and I track his path as he heads back to the small bedroom. When he returns a few minutes later, he’s exchanged his jeans and sweater for a fitted black suit. I watch as he pulls a small leather Dopp kit out of his bag. Inside, there’s a silver tie clip that he slides across a thin black tie. Cufflinks are added with smooth dexterity. He straightens his collar and folds a pocket square before neatly tucking it into his jacket. Next, he tugs at the bottom of his shirtsleeves, settling the material so it sits a half-inch past his suit jacket. Most of the time with men, especially ones my age, it looks like the suit is wearing them rather than the other way around. That’s not the case with James. He seems more comfortable like this than he did in his jeans.

  When he finishes, he glances toward me with a quirked eyebrow. I want to pause time and snap a photo of him looking like this, eyeing me with that exact look. “How do I look?”

  He knows how he looks. He’s likely been told by hundreds of women throughout his life, but he’s asking me now, and for some reason I’m scared to inflate his ego any more—probably because I’m still currently sporting a sweatshirt and yoga pants. I curse my laziness. The man is Adonis, and I am Sloth.

  I nod curtly. “Looks good. I like the suit.”

  It’s as much as I can do without making a simpering fool of myself.

  His smile tells me he sees right through my defenses.

  “As soon as we land, I’ll need to head straight to the conference. There’s a welcome breakfast and then a full day of panels.”

  “Are you excited?”

  He shrugs. “It’s rare to have so many tech giants gathered together. I think anyone in the industry would get excited by that amount of brain power in one room, not to mention I went to school with quite a few of them at Caltech. It feels like a college reunion every year.”

  “Is everyone staying at the same hotel?”

  “Unfortunately for you, yes.”

  I smile. “Why unfortunately?”

  His gaze meets mine as he chuckles. “You’ll see.”

/>   …

  When we arrive outside the swanky hotel, it’s a complete madhouse. Our driver hurries around the back of James’ hired car and as soon as we step out, the whispers start. James’ name is repeated like a game of telephone so all eyes are on us as we pass through the front doors. Techies overflow every corner of the foyer and lobby, and the line for check-in winds back and forth like a coiled snake. Overheard conversations confirm that they’ve been waiting there for hours.

  The hotel’s decor, usually sleek and modern, is hidden behind colorful banners and signs welcoming us to the conference. In fact, the first thing I see as we walk inside is James’ headshot waving on a banner overhead.

  “You’re the keynote speaker?” I ask, pointing up.

  He nods and pushes us forward without glancing at it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s embarrassed to see himself blown up to epic proportions. The concept makes me smile.

  A petite redhead comes barreling out of the crowd, beelining straight for us.

  “Mr. Ashwood!” she says with a wide smile. A nametag on her black blazer explains that she’s the lead coordinator for the conference. “If you’ll follow me, we can get you checked in as quickly as possible.”

  I expected to have to wait in the winding line, but instead, the coordinator leads us to a secluded corner of the lobby hidden behind heavy black drapes. Here, a young man sits behind a computer, typing away. When he sees us walk up, he stops immediately and stands to shake James’ hand.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ashwood. We have your suite set up exactly as you requested.”

  James nods. “Good. I’ll need you to escort Ms. Davenport there. I don’t have time to head up.”

  The young man turns to me and nods, and just like that, James’ power and influence is passed on to me. It’s a heady feeling.

  “Of course. Let me just get your room keys ready.”

  I turn to James with a quirked brow. “I didn’t think there would be so many people here.”

  He shrugs. “This is the largest annual tech conference in the United States. SXSW is popular too, but here the events aren’t combined with film and music. It’s three days focused strictly on innovations in the tech community.”

  “I saw on that banner back there that your keynote speech will be broadcasted as a TED talk.”

  He glances over my shoulder and sighs. “Don’t remind me. Public speaking isn’t my strong suit.”

  I reach out and squeeze his arm for reassurance. “I think you’ll be fine. Did you see the way people reacted to you when we walked in?”

  He wraps his hand around my lower back and leans down to press a chaste kiss to my lips. Before he pulls away, he whispers, “No, I didn’t notice.”

  A shiver runs down my spine as he stands back to his full height, and if I wasn’t sure of his feelings, they’re made perfectly clear by the way he’s staring down at me. His dark eyes are unnerving. His hand lingers on my lower back, drawing me closer. I press a hand against the soft material of his suit and offer an easy smile to ease the tension.

  “I’m sorry I can’t spend the day with you,” he says.

  “Are you kidding? I’m going to head upstairs and put on a fluffy hotel robe and slippers, maybe order room service.”

  His half-smile tells me he’s imagining me in the fluffy robe.

  I flush and look away.

  “Brooke,” he says, drawing my attention back to him with his soft tone. “I’m glad you came.”

  I smile. “I am too.”

  …

  After the concierge leaves me at the door of our suite, I spend a few minutes snooping around. I can’t guess at the square footage, but it’s completely ridiculous and has probably housed Beyoncé and Jay-Z at some point. There are two bedrooms off of a main living area. Down one hallway I find a small gym, sauna, and wine room. Down another hallway, there’s an office and kitchen. At one point, I GET LOST—that’s how big this place is.

  I fulfill the promise I made to James by slipping into a fluffy robe and padding around in the hotel slippers. After I unpack my clothes and fall back onto the bed in a heap of comfy pillows and fluffy blankets, I force myself to work out in the gym so I don’t feel the least bit guilty about the salted caramel tart I tack on to the end of my room service order.

  Later in the afternoon, I start to get ready for the evening, happy to take my time. James and I have plans to meet for dinner at the restaurant on the top floor. Their Asian-fusion cuisine has been touted as the best in Vegas, and I’m giddy to try it out.

  I want to make up for my yoga pants and sweatshirt. The flirty dress I borrowed from Ellie is a little too short and a little too red. Back home I would have paired it with a leather jacket to try to tone it down, but this is Vegas—the city of sin. So, I don’t think twice when I swipe on an extra coat of mascara and paint my lips in a deep red lipstick appropriately named Candy Apple. With my long black hair and red lips, I look like Snow White’s evil twin.

  I head to the elevators and check my reflection in the glass. The nude heels were a nice touch, and the dress is a definite head-turner. That’s further confirmed when I step on the elevator and two well-dressed men pause their conversation. I turn and face the front, concealing my smile from them. The elevator starts to carry us higher and as we pass floor after floor without stopping, I assume they’re also headed to the restaurant.

  “Did you catch the panel?” one of them asks.

  “Yeah, but I left early. What’d you think of Ashwood?” My ears perk up. “I’ve always heard he’s kind of a prick, but he seemed all right.”

  “I thought he was pretty good. He was actually a few years ahead of me at Caltech. I didn’t think he’d remember me. We only had one class together, but I was able to catch up with him after the panel.”

  The first guy groans. “Oh c’mon, don’t tell me you’re another Ashwood sycophant.”

  I cover up a laugh with a semi-realistic cough. Neither of them notices.

  “Name one person here who’s accomplished more in less time than he has,” the Ashwood sycophant says in his defense. “I don’t want to grovel at his feet, but if I get a chance to pick his brain, you better believe I’m going to try.”

  He snorts. “Keep praying at the altar of BioWear. Meanwhile, Martin Stone is the real tech leader. You know their stock just split again?”

  “What has Stone done lately? Come talk to me in five years when Apple is begging to buy out BioWear.”

  The elevator arrives on the top floor and the doors swoop open. The hostess stand is down a thin hallway, and I make sure both men can hear me as I bend forward and announce that I’m here under a reservation for James Ashwood.

  The hostess beams. “Of course. Right this way.”

  And just because I can’t help it, I turn over my shoulder and soak in the shock on both of their faces. Their jaws are still on the floor when I offer up a sweet smile. “Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen.”

  The hostess leads me to the back of the restaurant where a small table has been reserved against floor-to-ceiling windows. The Vegas strip spreads out for a mile on either side—twinkling lights, the Bellagio fountains, thousands of tourists snapping photos and strolling from one casino to the next.

  A well-dressed waiter arrives and although I’m starving, I don’t want to order any food until James arrives. I’m five minutes late, which means James should be here already. I peer around the waiter’s shoulder, confirm he isn’t in the restaurant, and then settle with water.

  15 minutes later, I’m still sitting at the table alone, and I decide to switch to white wine.

  “How about something from the kitchen while you wait for your companion?”

  I shift awkwardly on my seat, aware that the confidence I felt heading up to the restaurant wanes with each minute I’m forced to sit here and wait on my date. I’m suddenly a member of the Lonely Hearts Club, and I don’t like it.

  “Ma’am?”

  I offer a tight smile. “I’m
fine for now. Thank you.”

  He dips his head and then turns to address the table behind me. I’m aware of the dining room filled with watchful eyes. The restaurant is packed, and no one gets as dolled up as I am to sit alone, sipping wine. I check my phone, assess that James is now over 30 minutes late, and finally decide to give him a ring. I was hesitant to bother him at first in case he’s busy at the conference, but he can’t expect me to sit here waiting on him all night.

  There’s no answer. I hang up when his voicemail kicks on and go back to sipping my wine. Laughter and conversations filter toward me as I tap my fingers on the table like I’m strumming the keys on a piano. I swear my phone vibrates with an incoming call, but when I check it, the screen is blank. I’m growing desperate.

  Even when I vow to stop checking my phone, the Bellagio fountains force me to acknowledge how long I’ve been waiting on James. The dancing fountains go off every 15 minutes, in sync with music I can’t hear inside the restaurant. So far, I’ve sat here long enough to see the show six times. My glass of wine has been filled twice, and there’s still no sign of James.

  “Would you like another refill?”

  The waiter feels bad for me. I can tell because both times, he’s given me generous pours. I shake my head, incapable of offering him anything more without losing the tight cap on my emotions. I’m done playing the waiting game. James is too busy to let me know he’s not coming to dinner, and I’ve decided I’m too busy to wait for him.

  “I’ll take the check when you have a moment.” Then I think better of it. “Actually, can I just charge this to my room?”

  “Of course. I’ll just need to see your keycard and ID.”

  I hand him both and then hold up my finger, scanning the room before landing on a sickeningly adorable couple in their early 20s. They’re sharing one entree and sipping on water, likely trying to stretch their Vegas budget as far as possible. “Go ahead and charge me for the bottle and give the rest to that sweet couple over there. There should be enough left for them to each have a glass.”

  It’s hardly a drop in the bucket for James, but it still feels good to jam an expensive bottle of wine into his bill. It’s the only form of revenge that’s accessible at the moment.