Page 19 of Dirty Diana
“It’s my code name.”
“Why do you need—Oliver…” I trail off, laughing.
“Sounds like a pretty cool guy, right?”
It used to be that when one of us was excited, it spread to the other, like a welcome contagion. But recently, the opposite is true. It’s as if when one of us is excited, the other person feels they have to balance things out, temper the excitement with caution or reason or just throw ice-cold water on the whole thing…or what? What will happen if we’re both happy?
“You’re Fiona Volpe. I left the key under your name, Fiona.”
“Wait, what?” But he’s already hung up.
The lobby of the Rosevale has vaulted ceilings and pink marble floors. It’s loud tonight, with a bar full of conference attendees drinking in their badges. At the reception desk, an older gentleman in a well-fitted gray suit and purple tie squints into his computer screen.
As I cross the lobby, Alicia calls. If anyone would love this assignment it’s her. She’d waltz to the desk and announce “Fiona-Fucking-Volpe.”
“Hey.” I answer her call in a whisper for no good reason. “I’m about to meet Oliver in a hotel room.”
“Please tell me you’re wearing a trench coat.”
“Totally.”
“Dirty.” Alicia laughs. “Call me tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
At the reception desk, the well-dressed man says, “Welcome,” with a practiced smile.
“I’m picking up a key,” I say. “For Ms. Volpe.”
—
Outside of room 1406, I take a deep breath. This night is exactly what we need. No strained intimacy or fake orgasms or hurrying things along. An entire night, just the two of us.
Before I can knock, Oliver opens the door. I’m not sure who I thought might be behind the door—of course it would be Oliver—but I startle anyway. He’s wearing the blue button-down shirt I gave him for our anniversary.
“You found it,” he says.
“I did.” Oliver looks unsteady and I want to reach out to him and tell him,we got this.We do. We’re going to slip into the best versions of ourselves and be better, together, closer.
“Well, come, come,” Oliver says to me, like calling a dog in from the cold.
“Thank you.”
Oliver’s sprung for a suite, which has its own living room. I follow him through the sitting area, past the huge bay windows to the bedroom that I imagine is decorated to look like one of Laura Bush’s guest rooms—silk drapes, ornate headboard, and very southern touches. The overhead lights are off, but we’re bathed in candlelight. So many candles. “Wow. Flower petals.”
“Two dozen red roses. I did it myself.” Oliver’s smile is easy.
“Two dozen? Really. Looks like more.” A lot more. It’s a churning sea of dead roses.
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean it up.” Oliver flops onto the bed andlooks up at the ceiling, his hand tucked behind his head. “Is it too much?”
“No.” I lie beside him and drink it all in. How nice it is to be away together. I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes. “But maybe the candles? They’re a bit…. strong.” I can taste them in my mouth, like an unripe pear rolled in cinnamon potpourri.
“I got them on Amazon. They claim to beaphrodisiacs.” He rolls the word. “Four and a half stars.”
“How can a candle be an aphrodisiac?”
“Maybe all the effort is?” he asks hopefully.
