Click.
My tummy starts to tingle. And...he’s back. I love when he becomes a controlling, authoritative asshole who protects me and makes things happen. His domineering side isn’t so great when it’s projected directly at me, but it’s great popcorn-eating fun to watch him in action with others.
Especially Momzillas.
His eyes are bloodshot, the green irises glowing even brighter as the sun hits them, the pupils pinpointing. “That was a call about your—”
“I figured. She’s here. Along with a camera crew?”
Khaleesi’s here on her dragon, only surprise!—instead it’s Mom and Geraldo Rivera.
Oh, God. He wasn’t really with her, was he?
“The camera crew’s not here anymore. I had the news people removed.” I don’t ask about Geraldo Rivera, because my brain cells are currently occupied in their imitation of a tuning fork being hammered against a table saw.
He stands up and stretches, on tiptoes, his fingertips touching the ceiling. It is a riveting display of sinew and bone, of skin and muscle stretched with coordinated symphony across the same basic parts we all have.
Only his taste better.
“I ordered security to kick out the cable channel. Marie gets a hotel room as far away from us as possible, and under no circumstances is she to know our exact room number.”
I snort. “She’ll find us within two hours. You know how bloodhounds can track escaped convicts?” I don’t even have to finish that thought.
“Like hell she will!” Emphatic and pissed, he turns away, the view of his carved ass making up for the giant pain in my temples. I hear him in the bathroom, then a flush, then running water. He comes out wearing boxer briefs and a frown that makes him look like Chuckles, my cat.
Tap tap tap.
“She’s here!” I scream, ducking behind a Morris chair upholstered in a Picasso print, cowering like Elphaba is here to steal my soul.
She already stole my wedding, so my concern is not that far out of bounds.
“She is not here,” he says, answering the door in his underwear. He does that. I don’t get it. The man has a body that matches up against David Beckham or David Gandy or any other hot underwear model (are they all named David? Is that a requirement to be paid to parade around at photo shoots wearing tightie whities)?
But the way he casually walks around his apartment or hotel rooms unclothed in front of staff is a quirk I haven’t gotten used to quite yet.
In walks a man who is so sophisticated he smells like Italy. I have never been to Italy, but I imagine that if I ever go there, it will smell just like the man who wheels in an entire rack of clothing consisting of nothing but men’s suits, dress shirts, and five pairs of wingtip shoes.
Followed by another man who smells like Italy and Old Spice, wheeling in a set of clothing so colorful it could be a box of jelly beans.
“Fabulous.” Declan frowns. “It looks like there are no women’s shoes here.”
Marcello scowls at his assistant, rapid-fire Italian sounding like Star Wars sound effects.
He turns to Declan and gives a stiff bow. “We will be back momentarily with a delightful array of choices for Mrs. McCormick.”
“Thank you, Marcello.” Declan’s voice is friendly and amused.
Marcello bows to me and leaves, taking his assistant with him.
“You ordered clothes?” I snap. The role of Captain Obvious will now transfer from Declan’s brother, Andrew, to me, by virtue of osmosis. And bloodhounds.
“You don’t have to like them. Would it help if I lied and said I had my staff go to a church rummage sale and buy them, and that the rummage sale proceeds will go to buy goats for remote villages in Africa?”
“You would actually do that?”
“No. But would it help?”
I flip through the clothes on the rack. I vaguely remember Mom nattering on about how bright colors are popular this year. I see a lot of clothing with Chanel labels. The underwear is familiar: La Perla, of course. Victoria’s Secret would be more my style, but...
“You sent Marcello to La Perla?”
“He was quite pleased with that task.”
“He’s straight?”
“How would I know, and why would you ask that?”
“Because he’s Italian and he works in fashion. I’m surprised he’s—”
“Shannon.” There’s a tone of disappointment and warning in his voice. “That borders on stereotyping. You sound like Marie.”
Ouch.
My expression must be pretty bad, because he crosses the room and apologizes immediately. “I’m sorry. That was low.”
“Yes. It was.”
“How about we start over?”
Tap tap tap.
“Khaleesi!” I scream.
His Crazy Mother-in-Law Sigh comes out. I’m starting to think it’s not just for Mom.
A room service waiter, complete with a white jacket and bow tie, wheels a cart loaded with covered dishes and the Golden Snitch into the suite.
Er, I mean, a coffee pot. Thank God.
Before the poor waiter can even adjust the table to turn it into a full circle and open the wings, I grab the coffee pot, a cup, and the pitcher of cream and am mainlining like we’re in the caffeinated version of Boogie Nights.
A quick glance at Mr. Walks Around in His Underwear in Front of Staff and maybe we are.
Declan signs something and the discreet waiter retreats, leaving us with a white-tablecloth-topped round cart covered with platters of bacon, mixed berry bowls, handmade whipped cream, coffee, and my undying love.
I fling the silver cover off the bacon and chow down. Bacon in one hand, coffee in the other.