After this, I’m never going to get involved with his personal drama again. If a Georgette Number Two should happen to pop up, I’m definitely getting him somebody off Craigslist.
Focus on the triple bonus. Think about how your bank account is going to fatten up.
Yes. That’s the only reason I’m doing this. For the security it represents.
A white limo is waiting on the tarmac as we touch down and deplane. It’s flashier than I expected, but maybe that’s what Nate likes in Vegas.
A smiling driver comes over and opens the door. “Mr. Sterling. Ms. Parker.”
“Hello, Mario. Good to see you again. How’s Amie?”
“A pleasure seeing you again as well, sir. She’s doing great! Off to a magnet school this year.”
“Good to hear. I’m sure she’ll do well.”
“Yeah, she’s sharp. Like her mom.”
I watch the exchange. Somehow it’s surprising that Nate has had the same driver enough times to know about his kid. And that he knows and cares enough to remember the kid’s name and ask after her.
Our overnight bags are delivered into the trunk as we climb inside. And the limo takes off. Mario drives as though he’s transporting a fragile Ming vase. The engine is so quiet, the ride so smooth, it’s almost like some kind of magic carpet.
Vegas is flashier than Los Angeles. Well, the Strip is, anyway. Lights are everywhere, and we drive past at least three Elvis impersonators walking down the street. And there’s something I’ve never seen anywhere else: instant wedding chapels. One even has a sign that says, “Open 24/7.” Do people really elope 24/7?
When we reach our hotel, Nate thanks the driver and tips him. My eyes widen. Did he just hand over a couple of hundred-dollar bills?
It’s the same with the doorman, the bellhop and everyone else who does us a service. Nate greets all of them by name, asks about their families, then hands out money like candy on Halloween. Not crassly and overtly; sometimes it’s a folded bill enclosed in a handshake. But always with a warm smile.
My mind whirls. I’m pretty sure I’ve been with him when he’s tipped in L.A., but I never really noticed because I always had my face buried in my tablet. I’ve seen him plenty of times before, but this is the first time I’m really seeing him.
By the time we reach our suite, my mental total on the money he’s passed out is north of two thousand dollars. Even though math wasn’t my best subject, I can add and subtract.
And as soon as we’re alone, I whirl around to face him and point that out. “I understand you knowing everyone’s name because you come here so much, but did you realize you were passing out hundred-dollar bills to everyone?”
He looks puzzled. “Of course.”
“Why?” I ask, genuinely curious. Nate isn’t the type to show off his wealth. I’ve been around him long enough to know he finds it distasteful. “You know that’s a lot of money, don’t you?”
“Well, Joe had his first baby last month, and Linda’s kid just went off to college. And Bruno’s son’s started piano—the boy’s talented…” Nate lists all the life happenings of the people he tipped. “They can use it. And it’s not that much.” He shrugs like it’s really no big deal to him at all.
And knowing him, I have a feeling he’s going to tip them again tomorrow. It never occurs to him not to care or be generous.
It’s weird, but my earlier determination to do the bare minimum to get this farce of a date over and done with has kind of…evaporated. Nate really is the sort of man whose gorgeous face and body match what’s inside his soul.
A soft feeling wells inside my heart. It’s totally justified…but I can’t afford it, not when it comes to my boss. So I forcibly turn my focus to something else. I let my eyes wander around the suite—taking note of the lively city on the other side of the windows, the elegant seating area, luxurious rugs and beautiful arrangements of fresh flowers. But they’re not enough. I need something else to change the subject…and allow me to bury the emotions swelling inside me.
Finally I discover a leather-bound room service menu on a desk by the window. “I’m hungry,” I say. “What do you want for dinner?”
“Can’t eat here, remember?” He waves the menu away. “We have to go out. I made a reservation.”
“You? But you should’ve said something,” I say, slightly flustered. It’s my job to take care of details like that. This isn’t like our normal routine, and it’s throwing me off.
“I couldn’t let you do that for the date. Besides, it’s actually the concierge who made the reservation.”
I give him a sidelong glance. “You aren’t going to pick up orgy buddies at the restaurant, are you?”
He laughs. “No. We just need to be seen.”
A shudder goes through me. “‘Seen’?”