Chase is buttoning up a deep purple shirt and looking at me through the full length mirror of the bathroom. From where he’s standing he can see me sitting on the bed, staring at my manicured nails. He turns away from my reflection to look at me directly. “Am I spending too much time at the tables? Are you feeling neglected?” I can see in his eyes that he’s actually concerned and I immediately feel guilty for complaining. It’s not that I have a big opposition to daily massages, but there’s a fine line between pampering yourself and just being spoiled and overindulged. As far as I’m concerned, I standing right on the edge of that line. “I’m sorry, it’s a stupid thing to complain about.” From what he’s been telling me, he’s been winning a lot of money at the poker tables this week. Far more than we’re spending at this hotel, or the spa, or the room service. It’s just lonely eating my meals alone. Most nights he’s played so late that I’ve been asleep when he’s come back to the room, and then he doesn’t wake up until lunch. We eat together and then he leaves again. But I get that it’s his job, and I’ve already pulled him away from it enough.
