Page 32 of Hot Lap
I stand there, ear pressed to wood, and close my eyes against some strangely hollow feeling. Is that disappointment? Why? This is what I wanted, right? Space to think? Room to breathe and time to sort my priorities?
Sighing, I push off the door, cross to the windows, and pull the curtains fully open. Sunlight floods the room, and I gasp at the view of turquoise water and a marina filled with pristine super yachts under the bluest sky I’ve ever seen. I drink it all in, then step back and peek into the suite’s living room. On the table by the window, is something I didn’t notice last night.
Flowers. Okay, no, notjustflowers. This is a gigantic stunning arrangement of peach roses interspersed with sprigs of smaller star-shaped yellowish-white flowers that fill the air with an intoxicating fragrance. They're displayed in a fluted green glass vase with a bright pink ribbon wrapped around it and tied in an elaborate bow. This is nothing like the shitty, wilting grocery store carnations Lear brought me after our first fight. (That cheap motherfucker.)
A small card nestles among the stems. I pluck it out and read the simple message:
I'm sorry for everything that happened with my father. You deserve better. —Reece
My stomach does something squidgy that should worry me, but I’m distracted (or deliberately ignoring it). I touch the satiny rose petals, then lean in and inhale deeply. They smell heavenly.
Oh my god, Iloveroses. Did I tell him that during our night together or was this a good guess? Doesn't matter. These arefucking gorgeous, and I'm gonna enjoy the hell out of receiving them. In my twenty-four years, I've rarely received flowers and never a bouquet like this.
I mean, with this, Reece Pritchard put a check mark on the plus side of his balance sheet.
Okay, yes, maybe I can be bought. Just a little bit. I'm not immune to genuine apologies, especially when they come wrapped in petals instead of bullshit and excuses.
Reluctantly, I step back. I need a shower and I need to unpack and hang up a few things and do my hair and makeup and eat something. I unzip my suitcase and open the closet door to grab a hanger, and stop short.
The closet isn't empty. Not even close.
Hanging in neat rows are dresses, blouses, pants, and even a few light sweaters in my size. The styles are elegant but not flashy, in colors that will complement my complexion. Below them sits a neat row of shoeboxes containing flats, sandals, stilettos. On the shelf above are jewel toned silk scarves and pashminas.
I slide open a drawer in a nearby dresser to find neatly folded bras, panties, stockings, pajamas. All with tags still attached. Some practical, some definitely not. Everything screamsqualityandexpensive.
Branca must have arranged this. I grab my phone and text her:
Just discovered the clothes. Thank you so much.
Thank your husband. That was Reece's idea. I just helped with sizing.
I stare at the text, unsure how to feel. Is this generosity or control? Thoughtfulness or a sign he's embarrassed by how I dress?
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Reece. She must’ve texted him.
Hope the clothes are OK. Asked the concierge to work with Branca to get you some things. I'm not trying to control you. She mentioned you don't have clothes for Qatar.
As if he could sense my uncertainty.
I glance back at the closet, then at the flowers, then finally at the ring still on my finger. This man is a puzzle I can't quite figure out, and I'm not sure if I want to walk away from it or solve it.
I stare at my phone screen, typing and deleting several responses before settling on:
Thank you for the clothes & flowers.
My finger hovers over the send button before I hit it. I hesitate, watching the ellipsis that shows he's typing, then I quickly add:
I'll let you know what I decide after meeting with Coy.
His response to that is immediate.
That's all I can ask for. Good luck.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then nothing more.
I set the phone down, unpack my few things, and decide on an outfit. When I step into the bathroom, I’m stunned again.
Floor-to-ceiling marble stretches in every direction, soft white veined with silver and gold. Not fake gold, either. The real, reflective kind that catches the light and throws it back at you like it’s got something to prove. The walls glisten. Even the damn towel racks gleam.
