This Crazy Rich Boy

She sees Gabriel standing there, gazing at her body, and instantly Claire's heart lodges in her throat. She tries to speak but nothing comes out.

Gabriel, on the other hand, is simply stunned, as though bitten by a snake. He's never thought Claire Monteverde would look like this underneath all those clothes. Okay, he really did have an inkling—he very well remembers that scene at his mansion, during that messy pool party that Michelle Alcantara ruined, when Claire bȧrėd her flawless bikini bod.

But this—this is an entirely different level of awesomeness. Not even his old jadedness could shake off his intense excitement. The sight of Claire standing in the bedroom as nȧkėd as the day she was born was like a shotgun blast to his senses—that is, if shotgun blasts look like Cupid's arrow.

"Uhh," Gabriel clears his throat. "You're not wearing anything, Claire."

Hearing his voice seems to wake up Claire, who snaps with, "Thank you, Captain Obvious. I know." She looks around, as though unaware that her boss is seeing all this. Not even her previous boyfriends were lucky enough to see the entire Claire Monteverde flawless merchandise, so Gabriel doesn't realize how lucky he is right now. "The bathroom has no towel. Please find me one, will you? And stop staring!"

"Uhh, y-y-yess, Ma'am!" he stammers, unsure of what to do or where to go. "We-where do you think I can get a towel?"

"Find one, Mister Tan!" Claire snaps, hands on her hɨps, as though Lady Fierce has just gotten online. "Go!"

Gabriel bolts and disappears into one of the rooms of the suite. Claire quickly closes the bedroom door. She makes a big sigh of relief. "Oh my, God!" she mutters to herself. "Oh my God! Did that just happen? Oh my God!"

Claire hyperventilates. Those were perhaps the most intense few seconds of her life. She didn't know what to do. She could have grabbed the nearby blanket on the bed. She could have grabbed the pillow and used it to cover her most precious body parts. But shreds of her old debating skills somehow took over, and on reflex she used one of the oldest tricks in the book: fake your confidence, redirect attention, use surprising, unexpected action. Which was what she did. But oh boy, what a performance!

Claire touches her face, her cheeks—she feels warm. She had been blushing. She must have been totally red in the face. But Gabriel didn't seem to notice. If he did, he wouldn't be acting so silly, like some teenaged boy caught red-handed.

And most important of all, as she gazes at her reflection on the life-sized mirror across the room, she's still so darned nȧkėd. Like Lady Godiva on a special morning. Where in hell is that towel?

Meanwhile, Gabriel's opening closets, looking under tables, moving furniture. He has no idea where to find a towel. All the usual places are empty. He can make critical business decisions that could affect entire countries, but finding a towel in the middle of this nameless excitement is his Waterloo. There are bathrobes and fluffy slippers and what-have-you, but there seems to be no towel anywhere in this entire room.

But the truth is, he isn't seeing what's in front of him, as Claire's image plays in an endless loop in his head: Claire in the bedroom, flawlessly gorgeous, with curves in all the right places. Who would have thought? And what makes it more compelling is the fact that Claire, as she confessed, is still a vɨrġɨn: all that beauty, yet untouched by the ŀust of other men. How closely that had been ruined by Jake Magno just last night. Virginity doesn't really matter for him, though—he's not like some backwater idiot who values women based on whether or not their hƴmėn is still intact. But for some reason, the word "virgin" and "Claire" in the same sentence has an impact on him: she feels a certain sweetness about the whole idea. As though Claire becomes much more special, as though she had been "saved" by life for only one man in the whole world.

And who could be that man?

Gabriel is peeking under the bed as he thinks that, and he feels a tiny pang of jealousy: who could be that man, in the future after all this 30-day "job," that Claire would meet and perhaps fall in love with? When the contract is finished, he might never see her again. Even now, he doesn't want the days to go on, and this arrangement to end.

Goddammit, where did all the towels go? There's nothing. He stands in the middle of the room and realizes there's a phone in the corner—why not just call up Concierge and have someone bring him a whole shitload of warm towels, for the sheer pŀėȧsurė of Her Majesty, Lady Godiva in the bedroom. So that's what he actually does. In five minutes, he hears the doorbell.

"Sir, you need fresh towels, sir?" Lucille says, her face unseen behind the tall stack of white towels in her arms.

"Yes, thank you."

He immediately closes the door, leaving Lucille wondering about why Gabriel Tan is being weird—and why is he at Miss Claire's suite at this hour?

Gabriel knocks, the towels in her arm. "Claire? Claire? Here are the towels."

The door opens and out comes Claire wearing the Residence's monogrammed bathrobe. "Sorry, but I don't think I still need that."

Gabriel winces. "Sorry, I'm too late."

"It's okay," she says, uncertain of how to address him after the earlier embarrassment. "I'm sorry, too, for….For everything."

"Don't say sorry. That was actually great—err, I mean, yeah, shit happens. Nothing to worry. At least you're fine now."

"Yeah," she nods.

Silence. They stand there, seemingly waiting for the other one to break the ice. Claire couldn't even meet his gaze.

"Shall we go to the spa now?" he says after a while.

"Sure. Can I go like this?"

"It's fine. They'll make you wear something like that, anyway."

"Then how about you?"

"What about me?"

"Aren't you going with me? To the spa?"

"Ah, yes, yes," he says, still a little distracted by his thoughts. "Yes, I'm coming with you."

"Then you should change clothes, too."

"I, uhh…" Only then does Gabriel realize he's still wearing the suit from last night, when he had a scuffle with Jake. It's torn in places, and grimy. He looks like he just walked in from a war. "Well, maybe I should change into something more appropriate, too."

"Yes, you should," Claire says, and points to the bedroom. "There's still one clean bathrobe in there."

""Absolutely," he says. He holds the door—"Should I close this while I change, or…"

"By all means, close the door, Mister Gabriel Tan! Don't let me see you get nȧkėd. Because if you don,t, I'm not sure if I can stop myself…" Claire grins.

For a moment Gabriel doesn't catch the joke, then he laughs sheepishly. "Yes, what was I thinking?" He closes the door gently.

Outside, Claire's bravado fizzles out the moment Gabriel is out of view. This performance is taking so much from her, as though she's expending too much energy just to keep up with all her conflicting, weird feelings. Behind that door, Gabriel would be nȧkėd, too. She could even picture it…No, Claire, stop! Stop being weird. You can't go on like this. Draw the line and never cross it.

But when the bedroom door opens and Gabriel comes out in a bathrobe, his shoulder-length hair tied in a ponytail, his muscles giving the fluffy bathrobe its distinct sėxiness, Claire's sense of boundary is blurred by the mad beatings of her heart.