by Stella Gray
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 als
o 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.
Brooklyn
Chapter 16
The first step toward finding out if what’s between me and Luka is real?
Going on A Real Live Date.
Our marriage was so rushed that we never actually got a chance to date, or even spend that much time getting to know each other. Luckily, it’s not too late to start. Once we returned from Vegas, we talked about making an effort to spend more one-on-one time together, but he went back to his usual schedule at work so fast that we never ironed out the details. It’s been a little over a week now and I’m tired of waiting…so I’m taking the initiative. After all, it’s the 21st century. And I’m not the kind of girl who just sits around pining for a guy and hoping he’ll eventually take it upon himself to plan something romantic. I’ve got it all figured out.
I’m about to surprise the hell out of my husband.
Considering that he’d had such a rough time with Monica on the Maxilene shoot and an even rougher time going back to the DRM offices—getting hit with an overstuffed inbox and an avalanche of contracts and phone calls to catch up on—I figure a quiet, candlelit dinner at home is exactly what Luka needs. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he walks in the door exhausted and stressed, only to find the table laid out perfectly, soft music playing in the background, me greeting him in a flouncy dress with a glass of wine freshly poured for him.
Originally I’d thought we could go out for a classic Dinner and a Movie, but when I called Emzee to ask about Luka’s favorite restaurants, she pointed out the fact that if we went to any of the pricy places that Luka liked best, we’d probably be tailed by paparazzi all night.
“But maybe you guys could go in disguise?” she’d suggested, only half kidding.
The more I considered it, though, the more I found myself leaning toward a nice, quiet night in our own living room—low-key and relaxed, with no interruptions. Plus, if our “first date” went well, and we were feeling frolicsome, the master bedroom would be steps away.
So here I am now, going over the top arranging the takeout food I ordered from the amazing Italian deli a few blocks away. There’s a comedy special on Netflix tonight that Luka and I had talked about watching, so the TV is all queued up and the food’s spread out on the coffee table. We’ve got a stack of assorted sub sandwiches, a crisp Caesar salad freshly tossed in a crystal bowl (that I’m guessing is probably meant to be used for punch, but fancy times call for fancy measures), and thick-cut French fries under a metal dish cover to keep them warm. I even put the ketchup in a dish with a sprig of parsley, which I hope Luka finds as amusing as I do.
Emzee stopped by earlier to pick up Mr. Kibbles so that we’d have the whole penthouse to ourselves, but I can’t help wishing the dog were here right now to wag his tail and beg for bits of salami. Curling up on the couch with Luka and Kibby has quickly become my favorite evening activity. I’m guessing the dog would happily knock over the taper candles on his way to attack the sandwiches, though, so it’s probably for the best that he’s at a sitter’s.
What else? Apartment tidy, cheesecake in the fridge, comfy throw blanket over the back of the couch in case we want to snuggle. The candles are set up and waiting to be lit, the wine is ready to be uncorked, the Pandora station is set to smooth jazz. Everything looks just right.
Suddenly, it hits me: looking around our place, I realize how happy I am to be here. Vegas was spontaneous and fun, but when I came home from the airport with Luka, it was the first time in forever that I could remember walking in the door and feeling like I truly belonged in this space.
Satisfied that date night is locked and loaded, I go into the bedroom to change. My dress is simple but has a bohemian vibe, with straps that tie into little bows over my shoulders and a long, swishy skirt. It’s as comfortable as a nightgown, and Luka appreciates how transparent the sheer cotton is. I put my hair into a loose braid and slip on some gold hoop earrings, leaving my feet bare. God, this is so much better than a fussy night out wearing heels and a mini-dress. When I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I could swear I’m almost glowing.
Luka still won’t be home for another hour or two, so I flop down on the couch and start scrolling through my Insta feed. Suddenly, my phone rings in my hand. It’s my husband.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say, hoping that he’s not calling to say he’ll be working late again.
“Be ready for me down in the lobby in fifteen minutes. And dress warm.”
I’m sitting straight up now. “What? Why?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, Brooklyn,” he teases. “See you soon.”
He hangs up and I stare at my phone, wondering what he’s up to. Letting out a giddy little laugh, I put the food in the fridge and run to my room to change into jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, even though it’s still plenty warm out. Since I have no idea what exactly he’s planned, I borrow one of his hoodies to bring with me just in case we end up in an igloo or something.
When I get downstairs, my husband is waiting in the lobby with a paper and twine-wrapped bouquet of huge pink peonies, and a sexy smirk that I want to kiss right off his face.
“I love peonies!” I exclaim. “You remembered.”
“How could I possibly forget,” he says, “when you made such a big deal about having them all over the place for the wedding?”
My cheeks are warm, and excitement pumps through me as I embrace him, keeping the kiss PG for the sake of the doorman.
“Ready?” Luka asks, and when I nod he takes my hand and leads me to the garage.
So far, he hasn’t dropped a single hint about where we’re going, and the suspense is killing me. I look at him expectantly, but he doesn’t give in.
“C’mon, spill it. Where are you taking me?”
He holds the car door for me. “I told you. It’s a secret.”
I try to con him into telling me while he drives, but he’s adorably resolute in keeping it to himself. The section of the city we go through looks familiar, and I get very curious as we pull into the United Center. I’ve never been inside, but I know that the Bulls play here, and tons of concerts and special events are held in the venue as well. But there are hardly any cars in the lot, and no names on the big signs
outside. I’m at a complete loss over what he’s up to.
“Are we…seeing a concert?” I ask.
“Nope.”
“Comedy show?”
“Not even close.”
Parking, he unbuckles his seatbelt to turn and look at me, his eyes lit up with amusement. “Feeling athletic today?”
I tap my chin, like I’m thinking hard. “Well, I was loafing on the couch staring at my phone when you called, and I haven’t been to my yoga class in a few days. So…”
He draws the end of my braid over my shoulder and fiddles with it. “I’ll go easy on you. Don’t worry.” Then he comes around and opens the door for me. I eye him suspiciously.
“Just what in the world do you have planned in there? Is this a boxing match?”
“You’ll see.”
“Fine.” Sighing melodramatically, I take his hand and follow him inside.
He covers my eyes with one of his hands and leads me left, right, through a door, and down a hallway. It’s hard to tell what I’m in for when I can’t even see anything. We go through another door that shuts behind us with a heavy, echoing click, and then all of a sudden the temperature gets noticeably colder. I smell ice and frost. Luka shifts so he’s behind me.
“Ready to open your eyes now?”
“Yes!”
Pulling his hands away, I blink into the blinding light all around us.
An ice rink spreads out before me, the pristine white surface glistening like it’s just been polished. A table with a white tablecloth and two chairs is positioned in the center of the rink. Candles flicker warmly, casting a quiet glow. The whole tableau looks enchanted.
“Luka, this is magical!”
“I rented out the rink so we could skate together,” he tells me. “Alone. No PR, no paparazzi, no family looking over our shoulders. Just us.”
“We have the entire rink to ourselves?” I’m shocked. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined he’d do anything like this.
“We do. But first, we feast.”
“Oh my God. This is so cool!”
