CHAPTER TWELVE
Marly
Holyshit. Okay,so yes, celebrities tended to get pampered a lot. Yes, I get facials once a month and as often as I can, I get myself to a nail salon… mostly because it helped me not bite my damn nails when I pay a hundred bucks for nail art. Pampering in this industry is not uncommon.
Butthiskind of pampering. I had never experienced it before. And I go to the best salons in Los Angeles. I moaned, too relaxed to care about the embarrassing sound as the manicurist massaged my hands and forearms.
Hours later, they finished and packed up the traveling massage table and supplies, then left. I had just wrapped myself in a lush robe that was left hanging on the bathroom door when my phone buzzed at the bedside table. Omar’s name flashed across the screen. “Hey, babe,” I said, answering.
“Hey, boo. How’s it going?”
“It’s really great,” I said, combing my fingers through my hair. “So far, I got drunk, then spanked, and tucked into bed like a four-year-old. Then today, I was rubbed down in an oiled massage.”
Omar’s silence was fraught with unasked questions.
“Don’t worry,” I added, “the rubdown was by a professional masseuse. Jude wasn’t even in the room.”
“Then why are you whispering?”
Was I? Shit, Iwaswhispering. “Would you believe for dramatic effect?”
He gave a deep, rumbling laugh that could have rattled the phone in my hands. “Not for a second. But I trust you know what’s best for you.”
“Any word about Simon?” I asked, hoping for a change in subject.
He sighed. “Nothing new. Haven’t heard back yet about my callback either.”
Instinctively, I put my hand to my heart, aching for him. “You’ll get it. I know you will.”
“You don’t know I will. YouhopeI will…”
“How about this? I know you’re talented and hard-working and youdeservethat part. Whether or not you get it.”
“Right back at you, boo.”
I smiled, a breath escaping audibly through my nose—half-laugh, half-sigh. “Whatever happens, we’ll get through it.”
There was another pause, before Omar said, “Hey, you got that little calendar on you?”
“It’s aplanner, not a calendar. And yes. When don’t I have it?” I grinned, picking up my turquoise planner.
“Well, do me a favor. Open it up to next Thursday, after your callback… and pencil me in for a dinner date.” There was a light knock on the door. I tightened the knot of my robe at my waist and pranced over to open it. “You’ve only been gone 24 hours, but I miss you already,” Omar said.
Jude peeked in, grinning, and I held up a finger, asking him to hold on a moment. “I miss you, too, babe. I’ve gotta run though. Talk to you tomorrow?”
“Talk to you tomorrow.”
I hung up and tugged the lapels of my robe tighter across my cleavage as I bent over. Using my blue pen, my specific ‘Omar’ pen, I wrote in curly cursive our dinner date.
“How’s Omar doing?” Jude asked, shutting the adjoining room door behind him.
“He’s good. I think he’s a little lonely.”
His neck tightened and his eyes flashed, erupting into an emerald flame. It all lasted only a second. One fleeting moment of pure, undiluted intensity before he relaxed and settled into a smile. “Is it the first time you two have been apart since getting engaged?”
“Actually, yeah. I didn’t realize that. We’ve spent a night here or there apart, but never a whole week.” Even though I didn’t do anything wrong by admitting that, I still lowered my gaze, embarrassed. Or maybe uncomfortable was the better word. Which was ridiculous. Omar was my fiancé… my fake fiancé, but for all intents and purposes with Jude, I had every right to talk about him. In fact, Jude was the one who asked the question. But if I’ve done nothing wrong, then why did I feel so damn guilty?
“I got you something,” Jude said.
