Page 19 of Filthy Rich Daddies
I smirk, reach for the phone, and dial room service. “Valrhona, two mugs, extra whipped cream, balcony setup.” I add a tip that would scandalize our CFO and hang up.
She sits, clutching the sheet to her chest, suddenly shy. The motion shouldn’t be adorable after everything we just did, but it is. I toss her a hotel robe—white terry, gold trim—and shrug into its twin. She threads her arms through, cinches the belt twice, like the robe might fly away otherwise.
Outside, November air greets us, brisk but not biting. The full moon parks itself above the skyline like a spotlight, washing the city in silver. Traffic hums below, a restless lullaby. From here, Atlanta looks orderly—straight avenues, punctuated by towers—nothing like the operational chaos I wrestle every day. I breathe deep, let cool night fill my chest.
Thalassa grips the railing and leans out, eyes wide. “I keep forgetting cities can be pretty. Atlanta from ground level is just…potholes and Waffle House neon.”
“You say that like Waffle House neon isn’t a national treasure.”
She laughs, and I file the sound away. High, spontaneous, impossible not to echo.
Room-service staff arrive like stagehands—rolling cart, silver carafe, two mugs as wide as cereal bowls. They vanish before I finish thanking them. The chocolate is as thick as velvet paint, steam curling into the breeze.
We clink mugs. She takes one sip and sighs. “I might marry this.”
“Not jealous,” I say, “but noted.”
She nudges my shoulder with hers. We stand in comfortable silence for a minute, moonlight glancing off adjacent glass façades—Bank of America Plaza glowing orange, a Ferris wheel’s LED spokes blinking rainbow miles away.
It hits me how bizarrely easy this feels. I’ve hosted dates up here before—sugar babies, models, influencers, a senator’s divorced niece, a congressman’s wife (I thought they were divorced)—but conversation always bobbed in shallow water—brand launches, follower counts, aspirational travel lists. Nothing personal, nothing real.
With Thalassa, depth appears without coaxing. The first round of sex should have drained all novelty, but instead, curiosity swells. To test it, I flick a playful finger at her robe tie. “There’s a whirlpool tub upstairs the size of a small swimming pool,” I say. “We could christen it.”
Her laughter cuts off mid-breath. She freezes, mug halfway to her lips. A shadow clouds her irises—a fast eclipse. Not just hesitation. A full recoil hidden by a polite smile.
I set my mug down carefully. “Hey. Too much?”
“I’m more of a shower person.”
No elaboration. Walls drop like crash doors. Instinct says to dig—my nature is root-cause analysis—but intuition screams at me to leave it alone. Everyone’s got fault lines. You don’t tap them with a jackhammer on day one.
“Copy that,” I say lightly. “There’s something to be said for standing sex beneath a hot shower.”
Relief flickers across her features, mixed with possible arousal if her naughty smirk is any indication. Crisis averted.
I pivot. “Tell me about your degree. Biology, right?”
She relaxes another notch. Victory. “Yeah, BS in Biology, concentration in aquatic ecology.” She sips chocolate, and the whipped cream paints her upper lip. “I want to study population genetics of endemic species, but right now it means endless PCR and not enough sleep.”
I hand her a napkin. “Endemic species—give me your elevator pitch.”
She wipes, smiling at herself. “You can’t take me anywhere.”
“No worries. I like you messy.”
Her cheeks flare bright pink; no doubt I’ve reminded her of our little painting session.
Good.
“Okay, picture an island—small, isolated. Over time, species there adapt uniquely due to their unique circumstances. Studying their genes tells us about evolutionary bottlenecks, resilience, maybe even how to engineer crops for climate change, all kinds of things.” Her hands animate the space between us, mug precarious in one. “It’s like reading a time-capsule diary written in DNA.”
I listen, genuinely fascinated. Data, but alive. “Why population genetics, not, say, marine biology?”
She hesitates. “I have experience in the field. Plus, genetics is like coding. Swap a base pair, watch the system crash—or run better.”
“You’ll have to mention that to Colin,” I say. “He thinks biology is coding with wetter error messages.”
She giggles, then squints at me. “You seem…surprised to be enjoying this conversation.”
