“Where’s Blake? Why are you here?” My eyes narrowed.
“Chained him to my bed and nailed him to the headboard.”
“Does he know you’re with me?” I ignored his stupid joke.
He bowed a playful brow. This particular expression drove me mad. It implied I was his cute baby sister who’d just made macaroni art and showed it to him.
“Let’s get one thing straight. Blake? He’s on my payroll. Waitrose? On my payroll. Alfie? Gross human being and on my payroll. So are you. You’re answering to me, and right now I wanna be with you. So I will. It’s really that simple, you see.”
I opened my mouth to say something that would make me feel crappy and push him away, but the elevator pinged and he pulled me in by the little belt of my dress, my back slamming against the wall. He leaned against the opposite wall, and that’s how we stared at each other, like two opponents in a very screwed-up game.
For the first time, he seemed to notice how red my eyes were. He squinted down at me. “What’s on your mind?”
“My brother is acting up back home. It worries me. Natasha is pretty much taking care of Ziggy by herself, and working full time, and…”
And I was blabbing. I looked away, at the mahogany wood and mirrors around us.
He didn’t say anything, and for that I was grateful. I didn’t need empty words of encouragement. I knew my situation, owned up to it, and was working toward fixing it. The elevator slid open and we both stepped out. Alex directed me to the hallway behind the main reception, not the front entrance of the hotel, where we walked through a darkened passage leading to the underground parking lot. I said nothing and felt everything. When he finally stopped, I looked up from my feet and saw two blue city bikes. My eyebrows shot up.
“Bikes,” I breathed.
“Perceptive,” he sassed.
I swear British people were born with more sarcasm running in their veins than blood.
I laughed, swatting him lightly across the shoulder, too relieved to get mad at him. I ran to one of the bikes and swung one leg over it, squeezing the handles in my palms. They felt different from my bike at home. The seat was higher than I was used to and the fabric was tougher—not as worn-out as mine. I kicked the brake, allowing the bicycle to slide a few feet forward inside the hot and humid underground parking lot. It was mostly empty.
“I could cycle around here and blow off some steam,” I voiced my thought aloud. He was still standing next to the other bike, staring at me.
“Or”—his voice was particularly un-icy—“you can get your little bum outside.” Just as he said that, he slammed a button on the concrete wall behind him and the metal garage gate slid up, light pouring in inch by inch. My eyes widened at the skyscrapers and huge, dazzling harbor spread before me. My breath caught in my throat. I gulped in the Merlion spitting water, the integrated resort of Marina Bay, and the unbelievably systematized cityscape. Before I knew it, his elbow touched mine and he was on his bike next to me.
“No helmets?” I grinned despite my best intentions. Manwhore or not, I missed biking around the city. And it was just a little trip. Not a love declaration.
“I like to live on the edge.” He licked his lower lip.
“I like to live safely within the lines,” I retorted.
“It’s a comfortable place to be, but nothing ever grows there.”
We rode through the Merlion Park. He had his shades on and the same Burberry cap he’d worn at the laundromat, so no one could have guessed he was Alex Winslow, the man who kept the paparazzi awake at night. The sky was gray; the air was dense and moist. The weather reminded me of the apocalypse, and maybe it was fitting, because he’d destroyed so many of my walls that day.
Everything was clean and foreign. I might’ve been a more experienced cyclist, but he had longer legs and the stamina to keep up with me. We cycled silently for forty minutes before he jerked his head toward a little coffee shop by the promenade.
“Thirsty.” A statement, not a question.
I nodded, and we both took a curve and rested our bikes outside the small café. We were about to head inside, but then he hesitated, took one look at the busy tables outside the shop, and groaned.
“Go order. I’ll wait out here,” he said, swinging his long leg back on the bike and staring ahead at the sapphire ocean.
I made my way to the counter, relishing the idea that, unlike him, I could. I wouldn’t know how I’d feel if I couldn’t even order coffee or a sandwich without the fear of being ambushed or photographed.