The Color of Her Lips

Chapter Twelve

Ariana

The next morning I feel something really warm on my skin, like a...body. I slowly open my eyes and rub them.

My head is not on a pillow. My head is on Michael's bare chest. My arms are around his waist. We are tangled with each other. He's holding me tight, as if I were his stuffed animal. Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.

I try to get free of his hold, but he keeps me in place and mumbles, "I'm sleeping."

"Let go of me, Michael," I plead. "Rule number two, remember? Hands off each other." My voice sounds raspy from sleep.

He opens his eyes just enough to catch a glimpse of me. "You were the one looking for me in bed."

I frown, still trying to get rid of his hold. "You probably misunderstood. I sleep alone, I don't look for someone to hug during the night."

"Whatever. You opened your eyes and were hugging me anyway," he says, his voice all groggy.

I keep fighting for freedom. "Please, Michael! We have to get up if we want to eat something before starting the day."

He huffs and lets go of me. "Fine, one can't even play around with you."

"No, it's a waste of time. And don't huff like that." I finally get up, and remember I am only wearing panties and my Victoria's Secret pajama shirt.

He rolls his eyes and lays on his stomach. "Geez, you're so bossy."

I head to the bathroom as I tell him. "Get ready, I am not gonna wait for you."

"Stop talking like this. It's annoying."

"I don't caaare!" I sing song.

Ha. He is forced to stay with me now, he has no way out.

• • •

After spending the day out in the cold weather of NYC, we're heading to the NYCC, New York City Casino, for that famous dinner.

"Have you ever seen Mr. Brown? Like, do you know what does he look like?" I ask Michael, while we're in a yellow cab.

He shakes his head. "No idea he could be a polite experienced, old man, some kind of creep, or a young man like me," he say, shrugging. "Who knows."

I hate it already. It's awful not knowing who you're going to be face to face.

"I hope it's the latter," I say, sighing.

The limo comes to a stop and the driver says we're finally here. Michael climbs off first, holding the sliding door open for me.

I'm wearing a long black dress with a slit. It has straight across neckline—I never wear low cleavage things, because I can't. I grab my black purse and carefully climb off the limo.

Michael takes my gloved hand, and I glare at him. He just smiles like a moron. "Fake it," he whispers in my ear as we walk towards the casino.

"No," I whisper back.

He ignores my disapproval and casually puts an arm around my waist, as if he's done this a million times before. "Smile," he tells me.

Once we're inside, there's no going back. Photographers immediately take pictures of the two of us. I put on a smile and pretend that I'm happy to have Michael DeAngelis by my side.

A lady introduces herself to us and lead us to the secret dining room of the casino. Michael tightens his grip on my waist. I glance up at him, and he flashes me a bright smile.