Page 43 of Enemies Off Camera
“Oh…” She chuckles happily, oddly satisfied. “Sometimes he calls for help, and I come by and he’s here, watching TV. Or I help out with room service, you know.”
I can’t help but grin at how obvious she’s being—which isn’t exactly on script. I should be a little infuriated, not amused by how hard she’s trying to stake her claim on my fake boyfriend.
“Oh, and speaking of room service,” she continues, leading me into the kitchen, “you have 24-hour access for all meals. You seriously never have to cook. Concierge handles laundry and dry cleaning. There’s daily maid service.”
Why would Jaxon have a kitchen like this if he never intended to cook in it? It’s a proper chef’s kitchen, outfitted with high-end stainless steel appliances and a full barista setup. I probably won’t need my plug-in tea kettle after all. The floating curved island, lit from below with a soft ambient glow, adds to the illusion of weightlessness. Its edges are wrapped in sleek wood paneling, and the top is a slab of pristine white marble.
She keeps going—shows me a state-of-the-art workout room, a theater where she claims Jaxon reviews game footage (again, how does she know?), a sauna, jacuzzi, and even a massage table.
“Let me guess—you sometimes massage him?” I ask, smirking.
“I’m a trained masseuse,” she announces proudly.
I burst out laughing. “No way.”
Her eyes widen, clearly unsure what’s funny.
I shake my head as my laughter fades. “So, um, does he get happy endings?”
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?” Her face pinches into something between offense and scandal.
I tilt my head, surprised by her reaction. I know her type. They love to toe the line and then act offended when someone calls them on it.
“You’ve been hinting at how well you know my boyfriend since we started this little tour, and now you tell me you’re his masseuse…”
“I didn’t say that,” she snaps, defensive. “Don’t tell him I said that—you’d be lying.”
I narrow my eyes. Frankly, I’m over this tour. I’m tired and ready to be alone.
“Okay, whatever. Where’s my bedroom? Did Jaxon tell you where it is?”
Without a word, she stomps off like a petulant child. I follow her down a long hallway lined with private rooms until she stops at one that feels like a five-star coastal retreat.
The moment I step inside, I feel calm. Muted tones of sand, cream, and driftwood gray create a sense of quiet luxury. A king-sized bed dressed in crisp white linens and layered with a peach cashmere throw sits beneath a large abstract canvas in soft ocean hues. Walnut nightstands hold sculptural lamps that cast a warm, ambient glow. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a partial view of the marina.
“You have blackout shades all around,” Anita says, clearly annoyed now. She demonstrates how they work.
Her tone shifts toward professional again as she shows me how to open the media cabinet and use another massive television.
Then we enter the spa bathroom. She demonstrates the heated marble floors. I take in the freestanding soaking tub under a skylight, a walk-in rain shower with floor-to-ceiling stone tile, a teak bench, eucalyptus bundles hanging from the brass rainfall head, a floating double vanity framed in pale oak, soft-close drawers, creamy quartz counters, backlit mirrors, and heated towel racks.
I didn’t expect this level of luxury. I might need to step up my home game. Still, I’m genuinely impressed with Jaxon’s taste.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing back in the bedroom.
A card and a bundle of silver-foil chocolates rest on one of the pillows.
“Looks like a note,” she says.
I pick it up. It’s from Jaxon.
Remember, Sweet.
JM
I snort and roll my eyes.
“We’re done. Goodbye,” Anita says, turning on her heels and leaving abruptly.
