Page 10

Weston
Is she still on a three-month cruise, gang-banging those twenty-year-old rich kids?
Carlee
Yep!
It’s one of the absurd rumors bubbling up in gossip circles about my absence. I’ve posted weekly articles for twelve years—filling pages with intricate details of the exciting lives of Manhattan’s elite—but now my silence is deafening. People have noticed I’ve been MIA.
My blog has recently earned some money, but my main income is from working at the W—a lavish hotel in Manhattan, where I scrub the glittering surfaces for thefilthyrich. In its luxurious setting, I’m overlooked, playing the role of a quiet housekeeper who doesn’t make eye contact. When I slip on that uniform, I become invisible to the guests. I navigate the marbled floors and three-story penthouses with purpose. Being a housekeeper is more than just a paycheck. It’s my access to the secrets of the wealthy.
Weston
Earlier, I wasn’t just giving you a compliment, like you thought. I meant what I said.
I hate that he can read my expressions so easily. He shouldn’t be able to do that.
Carlee
I meant what I said too. But thanks. Happy you approve, bestie. When will I see you again?
Weston
When you leave him and come to me.
I nearly melt into a puddle at the weight of his words.
Weston
Anyway, good luck tonight. Hope he’s the one.
Carlee
Me too.
I stare out the window, searching for a distraction as I replay how I became friends with Weston Calloway.
For years, he was nothing more than a public persona I analyzed and critiqued in my articles. That man was only a distant star I observed. Now, we secretly text and meet weekly, and our conversations are always lighthearted. Every day, Weston proves he’s exactly the man I’vealwaysbelieved him to be.
Before we became friends, I championed him from afar, my heart rallying for him. Now, it’s my mission to see him happy again. He deserves it after the hell he’s endured with his ex over the past year.
The car stops outside The Marquee, its iconic entrance illuminated in an inviting glow. I thank my driver and step out onto the red carpet that leads to the door. My heart gallops as I approach the entrance, the chiffon of my dress flowing behind me.
Once my identity is confirmed, my coat is taken. I sign my name across the next open line in the guest book. It feels surreal. I smooth my hand over the ivory paper, knowing I’m now a part of The Marquee’s records.
As the double wooden doors swing open, I pause to take it all in, my breath catching in my throat. I’ve only ever seen it in photos that were captured in secret. Each shot an act of rebellion, thanks to the strict no-camera policy.
Crimson velvet drapes hang lazily from the ceiling to the floor, and they surround the perimeter. Candles flicker on the polished bar top, crafted from the wood of one of Broadway’s first stages. It’s a silent testament to its rich history. I can almost imagine the whispered conversations and laughter that have echoed off these walls over the decades. If this building could talk, what stories would it tell?
I scan the room, and the romantic energy surrounds me. Eventually, I spot Trever and approach him, weaving through clusters of elegantly dressed couples mingling and laughing. OnceI’m close, he stands, placing a gentle kiss on my lips. It catches me off guard, but I go with it.
“Wow,” he whispers, pulling away, gently grabbing my hand and taking me in as if he’s memorizing every detail. “You’re …gorgeous, Carlee.”
“Thanks.” A blush creeps onto my cheeks, warmth flooding my face at his compliment.
Trever is undeniably attractive, with golden-brown eyes and messy dirty-blond hair that falls around his forehead. Based on his dating profile photos, I know his chiseled abs trail down the V that points to his package. It’s a hidden treasure beneath his tailored suit.
He pulls the barstool out for me—a charming gesture—and I happily sit. So far, so good. Maybe tonight will go exactly how I want it to. I might not be desperate for love, but great sex is another story.