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“Look at me.” I tug on the edge of my shirt. “I don’t really fit in here.”
“The way you look is permanently etched into my brain, Elora.” He leans back, pulling me with him. My feet land on the pavement, and he curls around me, his mouth lowering to meet mine. When he leans back, he doesn’t go far. “Not one fucking thing is wrong with you.”
Without another word, he takes my hand and walks with me toward the door that a man in a vest and white dress shirt opens for us.
When we step inside the hotel, I look around. From the marble floors to the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the place screams class and elegance. Everything I’m not. I look up at Roman when he squeezes my hand like he knows what I’m thinking. He doesn’t say a word, but it’s written on his face that I belong with him, and that’s all the reassurance I need to tuck my insecurities away, straighten my shoulders, and walk to the front desk at his side.
15
ROMAN
37.7749° N, 122.4194° W
Ihear a knock and glance at the closed bathroom door as the shower turns on. Walking from the bedroom to the living room of the suite I got Elora and me for the next three days, I open the door, and a woman with a short bob who looks to be around my mother’s age moves her eyes over my tattoos, seeming caught off guard.
“Mr. King?”
“Samantha?”
“No, Samantha is downstairs. I’m Vivian.” She forces a smile and begins pushing a cart into the room. Turning to face me, her eyes wander over me again from my tee to my shorts and bare feet. “We have your credit card on file, right? Samantha is the one who took your call and?—”
“I gave her my card over the phone,” I cut her off, crossing my arms over my chest as I watch and wait for her to question my ability to pay for the items I asked Samantha to send up. Things I don’t think Elora needs, but I never want her to feel uncomfortable for any reason, and I know the restaurant in the hotel is considered “fine dining,” which means they have a dress code in place.
“Do you mind if I have a peek at it?”
“Stay here,” I order and walk across the suite to the bedroom, where I left my wallet. Her reaction to me doesn’t surprise me in the slightest. My tattoos tend to catch people off guard. My grandfather and father were both pissed when I got my first sleeve at eighteen. My grandfather told me to my face that no one would respect a man covered in ink.
His preconceived notion only made me more determined to prove him wrong.
That year, I closed seven real estate deals and made my first ten million on my own. For a long while after that, every time I closed on a property, I got another tattoo. It’s been a couple of years since I got a new one, but my point was made. A silent “fuck you” and a physical reminder to my father and grandfather that their way of looking at the world no longer existed. Mostly, at least.
My clients tend to be younger, the majority of them born from the same old money I was or new money with my same mindset. That mindset included you can’t judge a person based solely on their appearance — not in this day and age.
Hearing the shower still going and wanting Vivian gone before Elora gets out, I grab my wallet off the dresser and take it with me to the living room. I pass her my black card, and her eyes widen slightly before I hand her my ID so she can confirm I am who I say I am.
“Thank you.” She passes the cards back, her hands shaking. “If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me. Whatever you don’t want, just let me know, and I’ll be back up to retrieve them along with the cart.”
“I’ll be dealing with Samantha going forward.”
“Samantha is new and?—”
“And I’ll only be dealing with her,” I state, walking to the door and opening it up—a silent demand for her to leave.
She hesitates and looks like she wants to say something but decides better of it, hustling to the door and out. After I close it behind her, I walk to the cart.
Across the bar hang about two dozen dresses, with shoeboxes stacked on the bottom and a few small clutches tucked between them. I didn’t know what Elora would be comfortable in, but I knew after her reaction outside the hotel she wouldn’t be okay showing up to dinner in jean shorts and a t-shirt or even any of her simple dresses.
I push the cart into the bedroom and go back to my computer that I left open on the bed. It’s been a bitch trying to work while I’m on the road, but I’ve been able to keep up with mostly everything, thanks to my assistant Mickey, who’s been with me since before I started my own real estate firm six years ago.
As I’m pressing send on an email sometime later, the bathroom door opens, and Elora steps out wearing a tank top and shorts, with her hair wrapped in a towel on top of her head. Stopping in her tracks, she looks at the cart, then at me.
“Before you try to fight me, the restaurant downstairs we’re going to tonight has a dress code, and I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” I say quietly, watching her fingers start to tap at the sides of her thighs, something I wonder if she notices she does. “You don’t have to wear any of the dresses I had them bring up. We can both wear shorts if that’s what you feel comfortable in, but I wanted you to have an option.” I look at the rack, then her. “You can keep one thing, or you can keep everything if you like all of it. The decision is completely up to you.”
She studies me for a long time before slowly pulling her gaze off me and walking toward the cart. Tentatively, like the dresses are a venomous snake she’s afraid will strike at her, she reaches out her hand and touches the black dress hanging in front of all the others, then slides her fingers up until she can look at the tag.
“How did you know my size?”
“I checked the stuff in your bag. Did the same for the shoes.”
