This Crazy Rich Boy

By the time they reach the threshold of the Residence, Gabriel is quiet, as though he's feeling weird. He knows he should be happy, even if Claire hasn't given him any definite answer yet. Anyway, she wouldn't let him walk with him arm in arm in the most romantic rain in the history of mankind if she doesn't at least reciprocate his feelings. But still, there must be something in that cold rain that has struck him—he hadn't been working out, he's been under too much stress lately, and running like mad through that curtain of cold water must have been short of suicide. So by the they reach the Residence, Gabriel's slightly shivering from the cold.

"Are you all right?" Claire says, squeezing him in the arm.

"Y-yes, I'm fine," he tries to smile. He takes a deep breath if only to hide his chattering teeth.

"You're soaking wet, Gabriel. First, you must change quickly into some dry comfy clothes. I'm sure we this place has something of your size. You own this entire building."

He lets her take the lead to the elevator. Inside the lift, he's tempted to pop the question again, but there's something about Claire's demeanor that says take it easy, relax, you don't have to worry anymore.

Claire stares at him. "You're red in the face, Gabriel. How are you feeling?" Then she places a palm on his forehead before he could react. "You're quite warm! Do you feel sick?"

Of course, Gabriel, with all his macho persona, says, "I'm fine, Claire. I just want to see you off. Bring you to your suite."

Claire gazes at him funny, as though she's trying to fathom the truth of his words. With Gabriel, it's always hard to know the truth; this man always places his ego above everything else. Claire sighs; if he insists he's feeling fine, then so be it.

They stop by the door of her suite. "Won't you come in?" Claire says. "You need to change your clothes."

Gabriel smiles. "No need for that. I'd just scoot back to my place. I'm calling up my ride."

Gabriel's eyes are bloodshot, and in this efficiently air conditioned room, his rain-soaked suit is causing him to shiver. "You're not fine, Gab," she says, then she gently touches him in the neck, and on the forehead. "You feel warm."

Gabriel gazes at her. "That's right. I'm probably dying. Can you give a dying man his last wish?"

She has an inkling of what he'd say, but even so she still asks, "And what would that be?"

"A kiss."

She tries hard to keep a straight face, forcing herself not to smile. "I haven't said anything, Gabriel. I haven't said yes. We're not…we're still…You're still my boss."

He sighs. "It's only a kiss. After all, I walked you home."

"So you're asking for 'payment' for walking me home, is that it?"

"Alright, not payment. Scratch that. How about a semi-kiss, a semi-goodnight kiss. For starters?"

"Starters for what?"

"Starters for a long, happy life with me, Claire."

Claire feels her heart flutter, but she doesn't show it. She recalls how many times he'd kissed her, often in the pretense of being "part of her job as fake fiancée" and all that. But this particular kiss, this would be the real one, the first official one. And although she's dying to give him this, Claire has doubts.

"It's only a kiss, Claire," he says.

"Would you be sorely disappointed if you don't get to kiss me tonight?"

Gabriel looks into her eyes. "I would die. Not visibly, but inside. Like the song, you know. I'd be walking out of here as the saddest little person." He smiles. "Don't you notice I'm getting cornier by the minute?"

"Yes," she giggles. "All because of a kiss."

Gabriel upraises his hands. "Okay, fine. If you don't give me even a harmless goodnight kiss, you might regret it if I suddenly disappear and you'll spend the rest of your life regretting not giving Gabriel Tan his last request."

"Stop saying that, it's bad juju," she says.

"I'm just saying. But okay, I'll go home. I have to prepare myself for some really big activity tonight."

"You're working at home? What activity tonight?"

"I'll just spend the whole night thinking about you," he says.

That must have had an effect, because Claire stops and gazes at him. Then without warning, she throws her arms around Gabriel and kisses him, deeply, full of longing, like the kiss feels like a long-in-coming confession of her own feelings. And Gabriel responds, hungrily, desperately; like he's been running all his life and only now he has found peace, delicious peace.

When the kiss ends, Gabriel whispers, "Thank you, Claire."

And she's not sure, but Claire feels like it's the very first time Gabriel Tan ever said those words. "Thank you."

"And goodnight," he adds. He's smiling now. He starts walking away toward to elevator lobby. Yet he turns back. "We have to be early tomorrow, Miss Monteverde. To battle the evil bitch." He grins. Then he's gone.

Claire stands there, her mind trying to unspool the events of the day and all their significance. Sometimes she feels like she's in the middle of a wonderful dream, like now. Is this real? Is this happening? She touches her lips—did that kiss just happen? The first not-part-of-the-job kiss?

As she closes the door, she feels…is "good" enough of a description? No. She feels delirious. She has a fever, but of the good kind. She tosses her things on the floor, slips off her heels, and runs bȧrėfoot to the bedroom, laughing like a little girl, singing the easy chorus of Dua Lipa's "One Kiss."

Meanwhile, as Gabriel's Benz sedan eases into the foyer of the Residence, he's already on fire; the delicious memory of the kiss and everything that happened this afternoon are being robbed of their sweetness by a raging, throbbing headache. He feels cold, like the air is full of ice, stabbing his flesh. The moment he slips into the passenger seat, he takes off his wet suit and shirt and orders the chauffeur to up the heater. He's starting to feel weird, like he's getting sick. He hasn't been sick in years, and this is giving him a strange sensation. He would have stayed longer with Claire, he would have wanted to just be with her all night long, but he knew he's running out of strength. Running through the ice-cold rain that afternoon has taken a big chunk out of him. The flu is his Achilles' heel, having had weak lungs in his childhood. And as he feels the beginnings of a fever, his throat getting dry and itchy by the minute, he holds on to the memory of Claire smiling, Claire telling her to take it easy, because everything will be all right.