Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

14. Curls

Marcel and I cut our day short. We did so much yesterday and today that our livers had to work overtime. I decided to spoil myself further by taking a bubble bath and a needed nap. The last time I slept that well, I was in diapers.

After I rise from my mid-day slumber. I stroll across the suite and into Marcel's room. The door was open. I'm not intruding. I'm nosey. I haven't been here yet. It's the same design as mine, except it's a black and white theme. Mine is gold and white.

Marcel's asleep on his shirtless stomach with a tatted arm dangling off of the tossed bed. Over his blocking shoulder, I spy ruddy, parted lips. His hushed breaths gather and depart right on key. His loose hair fawningly shapes his soft face. It's not like his jawline needs accentuating, but his hair cradles there as well. He's kind of cute when he's not being a smartass.

When I start sliding off the door frame, my attempt at catching myself fails as I knock into the ice bucket and champagne glasses. I try setting them back just as quickly as they fell. When damage control is complete, I scamper out of the room and around the corner.

Pressing my back against the wall, I send a hefty prayer to the man above. Amen. After a passing moment and not hearing anything in Marcel's room, I take a look. He hasn't shifted.

Without a lesson learned, I tiptoe back into the room. His camera and laptop are set on the desk with the chargers laid out on the floor. I step over them to get a better view of his face. Wow, Angel. You're weird.

A small grin craves itself across my face as his eyelash has taken prisoner of a couple of his curls. To make him more comfortable, I'm tempted to move the strands, but I don't know how hard he sleeps. Angel, you just knocked over the whole champagne display and he didn't budge.

Holding my breath, I trap my lips behind my teeth as preparation. Using the tip of my nail, I detangle the hair from his lash and guide the curls away from his face. I watch as the soft curls snake around my gentle touch.

I take note of the natural highlights that reflect as the sun finds the room. Looking over, I see where the sun graces his face. Blocking it, I don't want him to wake. Unfinished, I pinch another strand and skim it past my fingertips. I want to run my fingers the way he does, but I contain the notion by stepping away and heading out of the room with a final glance.

After an hour of Netflix and eating leftover chocolates from Lanskroon, I hear Marcel's bathroom door close. 

Looking into the box, I see several sample-bitten chocolates. Greedy ass. I got lost in the show, okay? Marcel doesn't seem to be a big sweets lover, so maybe he won't mind. He only ate three chocolates yesterday.

"What's up?" He stretches, shirt lifting a tad. I'm sure he's watching me. I can't afford fallen eyes.

"How did you sleep?" I ask, already knowing he slept

"Like a baby." He finishes my thought. "Did you sleep?"

"I was knocked out after my bath."

"Are we getting room service again?" He holds his stomach as he looks for a menu.

"Do you want to run into Barend again?"

"He probably went home. Order something." He sits down and reaches into the chocolate box, only to see I've bitten everything. His hand retreats, but his side-eye didn't. He holds that thing for a good 8 seconds until I break it. "Why you do that?"

"I was distracted." I point to the show. He looks too, then purses his lips. "I can break off that side," I say – somewhat apologizing. "I'm sorry."