“Just got the customer cleaned up,” I tell him. “Everything’s fine now.”
“It’s not fine, Frankie. It hasn’t been fine since I hired you. If I didn’t need the help so bad, you’d have been gone already. You know you’re theonlywaitress in my thirty years of managing a restaurant who has actually vomited on a customer.”
“Enough.”
Dante strides in. He’s dressed in the outfit I bought him, clearly on his last nerve. And Charles is about to get it.
“I’ve had enough of your indifference to the health and safety of your staff,” he growls. “I’m going to assume that you have no idea who you’re dealing with, or you would’ve thought twice before speaking to my wife that way.”
He looks incredibly imposing, despite his ridiculous outfit. It’s just an aura that Dante wears. Charles knows he’s in deep shit. His face drops, his skin going pale.
“Wife?” Charles sputters.
Dante looks at me. “Get your things. You’re done for the day.” Then he turns his piercing eyes back to my boss. “I’ll be taking care of her now, since you’ve done such a shit job of it. But don’tfor a secondthink you can get away with treating the rest of your employees so poorly.”
Somehow, he’s so stern that Charles immediately starts apologizing—which isn’t a reaction I’ve ever gotten from him. Must be nice to be a man. Fuck, how does Dante manage to still be so commanding in that stupid FBI shirt?
Once I grab my things and we’re outside, Dante hustles me into his rental car. I don’t get a chance to really figure out how I feel about this sudden turn of events as he races through traffic, speeding as if he’s on a mission.
We drive for about twenty minutes, taking the causeway over Biscayne Bay, until 195 dumps us out on West 41stStreet in Miami Beach.
I’m so busy admiring the view of the ocean that I don’t realize we’ve arrived at our destination until Dante slows to a stop, pulling into the valet line at the Fontainebleau. Where he has a room, apparently.
I gawk out the window, taking in the luxury hotel. I’ve been wanting to see the inside of this place since I first arrived in Miami, but never felt like I had the right clothing. You have to be dressed to the nines to even walk through the door, and I didn’t bring any designer wear with me when I left Napa.
As we wait for a valet, I tear my eyes from the curved white and glass façade of the building and face him. “We need to talk.”
“It can wait until we get up to the room.”
I don’t bother arguing. I’m too exhausted.
The valet pauses when he gets a look at my husband’s outfit. And then he looks to me as if this is some kind of joke, but of course I’m in my tacky polyester waitress dress. Dante throws money at him as he opens the door and slips out.
“Dante Bellanti. Don’t lose my keys,” he says, and then comes around to open the passenger door for me, helping me out like I’m an invalid.
I don’t fight it. I’m too enamored by the sunlight spilling through the glass-paned awning above us, the perfectly manicured tropical foliage all around, the expensive smell of the hotel’s signature scent—Green Bamboo—wafting out the doors on a cool wave of air conditioning. Yas.
Just as I suspected, everyone inside is dressed in designer finery. Even those who are dressed more casually, for the pool or other leisure activities, look like a million dollars. Everyone turns to stare at us, my cheap waitress outfit and Dante’s FBI shirt drawing more than a few looks.
When we finally get into the elevator, I can’t help but laugh. I’m surprised we didn’t get kicked out for breaking the dress code. Dante doesn’t seem one bit amused.
I barely get a chance to take in the spacious, luxurious suite as Dante steers me immediately into the bedroom and gently pushes me onto the bed.
“You need to rest,” he tells me.
He arranges the pillows and blankets, tucking me in like a child, and then draws the shades over the three-sided garden view window before going into the next room. I hear him ordering room service: tea and soup, steamed basmati rice, a carafe of water, and a ginger ale. Everything is happening so fast, and honestly, this mattress feels so amazing that I really could fall asleep. The sheets smell like fresh, air-dried linen. My eyes close, my body relaxes. I’m on a cloud.
“I can’t believe you were working while you’re sick. What were you thinking?” Dante says, coming back into the room and setting a glass of water on the night table.
I sit up with a sigh. Well, there goes my peace and quiet.
He takes his tablet from its case and turns it on. “I’m going to look up the best doctors in the city and make an appointment so you can see someone today.”
“Dante—”
“Don’t. You’re going.”
I frown. His caring attitude conflicts me. On one hand, it’s nice to know that he cares. But on the other, it feels like we’re just sliding back into the same old familiar routine of him controlling me and ordering me around.
