Then I turned and saw he was at the desk, flipping through the leatherette binder there. Then he picked up the phone, hit two buttons and put it to his ear.
I stood there and watched as he said into the phone, “Yeah, room six twenty-three. Bottle of Cristal, two glasses, now.” His head was dipped down and one, long finger was touching the leatherette binder as he went on, “Two bowls of clam chowder. Two prime rib dinners, one potato loaded, the other one all the shit on the side.” He flipped a page. “One cheesecake. One chocolate truffle cake with whipped cream. One panna cotta. One hot fudge sundae. And another bottle of Cristal. Deliver that in an hour. No. An hour and a half.” Pause. “Right.”
Then he hung up and looked at me.
That was when he asked, “You like prime rib?”
I burst out laughing.
When I quit laughing, he was staring at me, deadpan.
“Uh… yeah, thanks for asking,” I answered, still smiling because I couldn’t help it, he was hilarious even if he didn’t think so then I finished, “Belatedly.”
He made no response, pulled off his suit jacket while moving, tossed it on his duffle, walked to the bed and sat down.
I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat since my tuna melt. I’d sucked back two lattes while shopping because I could go without food, at a push. Caffeine, no way in hell.
And I was starved.
“An hour and a half?” I said to his back as he pulled off his boots.
“A man marries a woman like you in a dress like the one you got on, he’ll want champagne but he won’t be thinkin’ about food. Still, he’ll want her to have something special so he’ll be makin’ sure she does,” he said to his boots.
My hand went to the table to hold myself standing because it wasn’t an extravagant compliment but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a supremely effective one.
And he’d noticed the dress.
And these meant a lot to me, both of them did, the compliment and the fact he noticed my dress. I didn’t know why, they just did. And when I say it meant a lot, I mean it meant a lot.
I swallowed.
Then I forced out, “That might be so but –”
He stood and turned to me, hands going to the buttons on his shirt. “Bag of bones?”
“Yeah.”
“Good guess, he’s down the hall and watchin’.”
My gut tightened again.
“Really?”
“Really.”
That’s when I thought, oh hell with it.
So I tried, “Why?”
He stared at me as he unbuttoned his shirt. He got it totally unbuttoned. Then he walked to his duffle.
He didn’t answer.
I sighed.
Then I turned to the table and picked up my bouquet, walking behind him as he pawed through the duffle and I went to the bathroom. Then I stoppered the sink, filled it with water and set the bouquet in it wishing I had scissors so I could give the stems a fresh cut in order for them to drink hearty. I didn’t want that bouquet to die. Not yet. Not tomorrow. Not the next day. I wanted to keep it alive for as long as possible. And it wasn’t because it cost a hundred and fifty dollars. I didn’t know why it was. I just knew I did.
I decided I’d take my steak knife and saw off the stems later.
I walked back into the bedroom to see Ty on the bed, eyes aimed at the TV which was on but muted, no sound at all, baseball game. He had not taken off his shirt and a wide (but not wide enough) expanse of his chest, abs and tats were on display. His feet were bare. His long, muscled legs stretched out. Ankles crossed. His back was to the headboard, one arm lifted, hand behind his head.
That big beautiful body reclined in bed, the big man energy that normally flowed from him turned low but not turned off, his gorgeous eyes on the game, his fantastic features no less fantastic at rest, I wondered, what the fuck?
Why go to a pimp for a woman when you looked like that? When you could take the elevator downstairs and find at least a couple dozen women on the floor playing slots who would jump at the chance to pretend to be your wife and you wouldn’t have to give up fifty grand or a secondary fortune in diamonds.
“Uh… Ty –” I started but as I spoke there came a knock on the door.
He angled off the bed and I moved across the room. A waiter came in with a tray on which was a silver bucket, a bottle of champagne draped in a crisp linen napkin, two glasses on the sides. He put it on the table by the window.
“Would you like me to open it?” he asked, tipping his head back to look at Walker.
Walker shook his head.
The waiter grinned a knowing grin, smiled at me and headed back to the door, Walker following him. Walker came back alone and went right to the champagne. He opened it with a practiced hand and poured a glass, handing it to me, another one for him.
“To connubial bliss,” I toasted as a joke, lifting my glass but his eyes cut to me.
Nope, no sense of humor.
He put the glass to his lips and threw back half the contents while I watched his corded throat working like I was watching a master at a canvas.