Hotel Indigo by Aubrey Parker Read Free Book Online Page A

close to my open suitcase. All my bras and underwear are in there, at the top, as if on display.  
    I get another look. I’m probably imagining things, but I’d swear that look says, Goddamn right it’s fine. Just try and get me to move it, you bitch.  
    I look away and blink. I’m being so irrational. What’s with me today? It must be my mother. With my phone out of commission, I’m probably subconsciously certain she’s trying to call, or feeling guilty for all this alone time. Caspian’s business is probably falling apart while I’m out of town and he can’t reach me. Mom probably slipped and fell while holding her phone, but can’t call to tell me.  
    Marco locks the table’s legs into place, watching me through all of my neurotic second-guessing, obviously annoyed.
    With the table set up, he reaches for a set of sheets to cover it, finding them in a small closet near my suitcase full of intimates. They’re hotel sheets in a hotel closet, but the way he just barges in bothers me. He’s acting like he owns this place, but right now it’s mine, even if I didn’t pay for the upgrade. He’s in my stuff, knows I feel that way, and doesn’t remotely care.
    Once the sheets are in place, he just sort of looks at me, then reaches into the closet and hands me a robe. It’s placed in my hands, but with so much force that it’s more like shoving than handing.  
    “Um, thanks,” I say.  
    “Anytime.”
    Marco stands in front of me with his arms crossed, making his torso look so much larger and more defined. His white tee looks painted on. I can see his abs through his shirt; either it’s that tight or his abs are that pronounced. His forearms have a thousand striations. He has hands the size of dinner plates.
    “Any time,” he repeats, now with space between the syllables. He says it like I have a disability, speaking slow so I’ll understand.  
    And I realize he’s not saying “anytime,” as in, a response to my halfhearted thank-you. He’s telling me that any time I get my slow ass around to doing X, he can get to the business of doing Y. I don’t understand what X and Y are yet, but he’s clearly waiting on me, growing increasingly impatient by the second.  
    A tip. He must want a tip.  
    I go for my wallet and start rummaging.  
    “You did want a massage, right?” His tone says either answer is fine.
    “Yes?”
    “Well.”  
    We stare at each other for a long time.  
    “Are you going to get it fully clothed?”  
    “I figured I’d change when the masseuse came up.”  
    Arms still crossed. “I am the masseuse.”
    “But … I asked for a woman.”  
    “I was the only one available.”  
    I’m torn. I know it’s perfectly reasonable to insist on a woman. Even if it was un reasonable, I’d be well within my rights to raise a fuss. This is a posh spa, and they must be used to rich assholes throwing their weight around and demanding stupid things like peeled grapes. But for some reason, I can’t form words.  
    Marco still has his arms crossed, his foot practically tapping, stare on me. And I get this feeling like I’m facing a challenge with no way to win. Either I let him massage me, which he clearly doesn’t even want to do, or I tell him to go away and somehow fail my equality test as a human.  
    But that’s not fair. I asked for a woman. It’s not like I demanded a white masseuse and they sent me a black one. This is about gender. This is about a perfectly legitimate preference about the sex of the person who will be laying their hands all over my body for the next hour.  
    “Um, okay.”  
    “So?”  
    It’s hard to think with him staring right at me. So my fingers go to the top button of my blouse and I begin to unbutton it. I feel the cool kiss of air on my bare upper chest. I see his eyes on me as I begin to undress.  
    “Most people change in the bathroom.” Marco gestures down at the robe I’ve just set on the couch arm.
    My fingers fall from my