Page 42 of The Hitch
The receptionist looks up from her computer at the front desk, concern written across her face. I smile and wave, while allowing Melody to press the "up button," as she insists upon calling it. If it were a hotel Ididn'town, I would be worried for tomorrow morning. But I know the staff pride themselves on their professionalism—they wouldn't work here, otherwise—and I know that the receptionist will already have hangover remedies set to arrive before we wake up.
Melody, it seems, is a mischievous drunk. Stepping into the elevator, she presses the button for every single floor and sings out the numbers.
"Yes, love, there are twenty floors. Excellent work. We're going to the top," I murmur and pull her into my side. She slumps in with a sigh and another intoxicating giggle. I'm content to hold her, just like this, as the elevator ascends and stops atevery single floor.Finally, we reach the twentieth floor, and I shuffle her out to our home for the night.
The Lyons Suite, narcissistically named, is expansive and books for well over three grand per night. Melody gasps as I open the door and flick on the light, revealing a tastefully decorated sitting room. Plush velvet sofas and accent chairs are arranged in a semicircle, facing the fireplace. A fully stocked kitchen with white marble countertops flanks us to the left, and the bedrooms are tucked away to the right. Floor-to-ceiling windows are the crowning piece, providing panoramic views of the rolling hills and old-growth trees.
"Wow," Melody breathes as I deposit her into an emerald green club chair.
"Not quite roughing it, huh?" I say as I kneel before her and remove the spa slippers. She refused to get dressed after our treatments and proudly walked out into the hotel lobby, barely contained by the fluffy white robe. I snickered to Kathy when we left, and she assured me Melody's clothes would find their way to our door.
Now, though, I'm not quite sure I want them to. She cloaks herself in clothing. The uniform of her shitty diner job, the designer clothes she's had with me. She morphs into her own expectations, based on her appearance. But in this white monogrammed robe with matching slippers—several martinis deep—I feel like I can finally seeher.
And god, do I like what I see.
She shifts herself to sit sideways on the chair, throwing her hair back over the arm. Her pedicured toes—blood red polish—wiggle in delight as I grab her foot and massage the sole.
"Why me?" Melody whispers with a sigh. I almost didn't hear it, but the question nearly stops my heart.
Stalling for time, I clear my throat. "What do you mean, love?"
"Why me? All this money, power, influence. Why did you do… everything?" Her eyes are glassy, half-drunk and half-tearful. The sight grips my heart. Shit, I guess I have one of those after all.
It's a valid question. Truth be told, she was a whim. A curiosity. A spitfire who called me an asshole and a dickhead, then tried to stab me in the face.
A challenge.
"Because you're perfect," I replied, watching her closely. "Because you don't defer to me. Because you fight me. You're brutal and ruthless—Frank can attest to that. You run. You don't just give in. And, above all else, you're mine. I knew you were mine the instant you tried to kill me."
"I did?" She furrows her brow. "I don't remember that."
"You did. You picked me up off the side of the road somewhere in the Pine Barrens. You blew off my instructions and stabbed at me, but you hit the headrest." I smile at the memory. My little psycho. My murderous wife.
"Sounds like me," she giggles, then turns somber. "But is that really what you want? Is that really the kind of kid you want to have? What if it—what if it turns out like me?"
I'm a fucking idiot. Of course, that's why she's been anxious. In an attempt to console her, I run my hands up her calves and dig my fingers into the thick muscle, releasing the tension. "That'sexactlythe legacy I want."
A single tear runs down her beautiful face. She's silent, perfectly still, barely breathing. I slide my hands back downto her foot and press my thumbs into the arch. After a few moments, she nods.
"Let's get you to bed, hmm?" I say and pat the top of her foot. She rubs her eyes and yawns loudly. Reluctantly, she pulls herself up and follows me to the expansive bedroom of our suite. I draw the blinds and silence both of our phones. When I turn back to the bed, she's already snuggled in under the covers.
Her chest rises and falls slowly. I can't help but admire her dark eyelashes as her lids flutter closed. She mumbles something under her breath as I crawl into bed and pull her close. My dangerous little spoon. She wriggles and shifts herself, getting comfortable, and then places her hand over mine on her hip.
"Mexico," she slurs in her half-sleep.
"Hmm?" I'm falling fast behind her, lulling myself into slumber around the gentle heat of her body.
"I've always wanted to go to Mexico." She inhales deeply and lets out a long breath. "Will you take me there?"
"I promise."
Melody
Slivers of sunlight assault my eyelids, and I groan, shoving the plush blanket up over my head. Fuck, my head is pounding. I let out a little whimper involuntarily, and I feel the bed dip.
"You're okay, love. Just a bad hangover. I've got something for you," Dante's voice is low and soothing. Weird. I vaguely remember him beingreallynice to me last night, after pampering me all day. If he's trying to make me actually like him—nope. I shove the thought out of my head. We're both meansto an end for each other, and that's all it'll ever be. Though, for some reason, that thought feels like a knife to my heart.
"No!" I grunt and burrow further into the blankets.
