This Crazy Rich Boy

The strange thing about the Residence, which used to be Ilustrados Hotel, is that even when it only has a single occupant, the entire establishment remains a fully functional boutique hotel. The restaurants may be empty, no one's swimming in the rooftop infinity pool, nobody's sitting at the bar—and yet, every staff behaves as if business is in full swing.

You'll have to credit Gabriel Tan for all this madness, Claire thinks as they walk to the elevator. Look at how wasteful everything is. Approach the concierge or walk into any of the Residence's four fine dining restaurants, and you'll be treated like you're special, that the entire kitchen staff, even the chef, rose from the beds that morning to serve you.

It's hard to wrap one's mind around that. And for someone like Claire who had never previously been to any hotel, not even a luxurious one, everything seems absurd. Delightful, yes. Wonderful, even. But absurd, nevertheless.

The lift opens and Gabriel lets her enter first. Once inside, Claire's senses become so acute she could feel the electricity in the air. They stand side by side, in their bathrobes, and the looseness of the fabric and how it leisurely ċȧrėsses her skin as she slightly moves has an effect on her: as though she can feel his nȧkėdness without being actually nȧkėd.

They both fix their eyes on the floor numbers, descending. And part of her wishes this lasts a million years, this descent. She wishes time stops, somehow—she won't mind spending eternity inside this lift with him.

"What?" Gabriel says, looking at her.

"What do you mean 'what'?"

"I thought you were saying something about 'stopping time.'"

Holy shit. Did she just say her thoughts out loud—again?

It's an old problem, and it tends to surface during times of emotional distress or excitement. When she was a child, Claire would unknowingly hum her favorite Spice Girls song out loud during class lectures, realizing it only when the teacher would directly address her, to the laughter of the entire classroom. She was an ugly duckling then—oh how things have changed. If only her teachers, her classmates could see her now. They won't believe a thing of what has been happening with her. They won't believe she's in an elevator with one of the world's most eligible bachelors.

"Oh, I was just mumbling something."

"Mumbling what?"

Cornered, Claire grins sheepishly. "Forget it. It's just a silly thing." She sighs.

Gabriel says nothing.

The lift is supposedly a high-speed one, yet, for some reason, it seems to be descending in ultra-slow motion. At one point, as they stand there side by side, Claire's hand brushes oh-so-gently against Gabriel's hand. It's as if all her senses evacuated other parts of her body to gather at that same spot of skin that meets Gabriel's hand—and internally, she struggles—her reflex is to avoid the man's hand, just in case he starts thinking she's doing this intentionally. Yet half of her tells her to just let it go, it's all normal, this is a small space, after all, so this physical closeness is inevitable. So she stands there, her heart fluttering at the sensation, just letting things happen.

Then something unexpected happens. The lift shakes, like an airplane going through turbulence, and immediately, Gabriel grasps her hand and squeezes it. "Don't worry," he mutters. "This is an old building. It has its peculiarities."

"Oh," is her only response.

And weirdly, Gabriel doesn't let go of her hand. He's still holding her. As if afraid to let her go.

Claire closes her eyes. She knows she's blushing, and she hopes he doesn't notice it.

"Are you alright?" he says.

"Why?"

"Your face is all red!"

So there it goes—what she feels is obvious to the nȧkėd eye. Claire couldn't' really hide anything to people, even her innermost feelings.

"I'm fine, Gabriel."

"No, no, no. You're red in the face. Are you having a panic attack? Or an allergic reaction?"

Jesus Henry Christ, the emotional reactions of this man! "I'm fine, Gabriel. I just feel… I just feel…" I just feel strangely attracted to you, is what she wants to say, but the words never leave her lips.

"I know what a panic attack looks like," he insists. "And you seem trembling. Jesus, Claire, I think you're having an allergic reaction of some kind!"

"I am fine, Gabriel!"

"No, you're not," Gabriel says, "This is an emergency." And as if on cue, the elevator doors open to the second floor, where the only establishment is the luxury spa. He grabs her in his arms, like a knight saving a damsel in distress. "Don't worry, you'll be fine! The spa has a resident medical personnel, too. Just relax."

Then he half-runs, half-walks the entire length of the long hallway, carrying her in his arms as though he's holding precious cargo.

And while all this is happening, Claire is thinking: This is insane…but thrilling in a weird way. Why do I feel so good in his arms? Why am I having this strange sensation? This sense of intimacy, this closeness that I've never felt with anyone before, not even with my so-called boyfriends?

She has given up struggling—no point in telling this man that she's fine. That she's merely blushing. This is Gabriel Tan being crazy again, and Claire thinks she should just let the course run.

As they arrive at the reception lobby of the luxury spa, manned by a lone receptionist who looks strikingly pretty by any standards, Gabriel is yelling, "I need ȧssistance. Get me the doctor!"

The receptionist immediately disappears into a backroom.

Gabriel gently places Claire on a sofa. "How are you feeling?"

I told you I'm super fine, is what Claire almost says. But what comes out of her lips is, "I feel like I'm out of breath."

"Jesus," he mutters. "Hold on."

Gabriel looks around. There's still no sight of the receptionist or the doctor, who just last night checked on Claire.

And secretly, Claire is giggling inwardly. Look at how this man worries. She feels so special, as though Gabriel's world would implode if something serious actually happens with her. And for some reason, some naughty streak, Claire even ups the ante. Even when she really feels fine, she says, "I can't breathe, Gabriel."

"Jesus, Claire," he says. "Wait." He looks around one last time. And when there's still no sight of the doctor, he gazes at Claire.

For a split-second, Claire seems to recognize a gleam of longing in Gabriel's eyes—before he swoops down to give her a mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

But there's only one other strange thing: Claire's tongue is awkwardly in the way as he tries to "resuscitate" her.

And perhaps, whether intentional or not, Gabriel's efforts in trying to "resuscitate" poor Claire, with that tongue in the way, and the heady feminine scent of this woman, and the memory of how she looked breathtakingly lovely and nȧkėd in the bedroom playing in an endless loop in Gabriel's head, the "mouth-to-mouth resuscitation" very slowly, like the luscious melting of glaciers, transforms into a deep, gentle, intimate kiss.