Cover to Covers by Alexandrea Weis

expensive Italian watch Hadley had given him for their first Christmas together, he hoped that he would find Monique in for the night, perhaps preparing for bed. Even though eight o’clock was not late for many, he had remembered Monique to be an early riser. It was something that had always bothered him during their time together. He had been the night owl, anxious to party until dawn, but she had been his practical conscience, reminding him of his responsibilities and the need for a good night’s sleep. Over the years, he had often recalled her advice about tempering his wild side with some discipline. It was as if Monique’s voice still whispered in his ear day after day, advising him on the best course of action. He had not realized it until that moment, but hers had been the voice of reason in his head, the strength that had guided him through his sobriety and eventual rise up the corporate ladder.
    When the elevator doors opened on the eighth floor, his usually resilient confidence faltered. Perhaps this was a mistake. Maybe the Monique he had built up in his head over the years would not live up to the woman she had become. She could have acquired vices or hid den secrets that would disappoint him and eventually make him regret their reunion. 
    Tyler was still vacillating between returning to his room and knocking on her door when he found himself standing before the white oak door with the number “833” painted in gold above the peephole.
    “What am I doing ?” he groaned into the empty hallway.
    Pulling the book from under his arm, he was about to raise his hand to knock on the door when it flew open.
    She was standing in the doorway wrapped in a white hotel robe with a white towel coiled about her head like a turban. Her dark gray eyes scrunched together as she inspected him.
    “Funny, you don’t look like room service,” she jested in the intrepid Monique-style he remembered.
    “I come bearing one of your books, not a plate of risotto.” He held up the paperback to her.
    She frowned, drawing her pink lips together. “I hate risotto.”
    He nodded, staring at her perfect mouth. “I remember.” He took a step closer to the door. “I wanted to tell you that I read your book.”
    “Is that why you showed up at my book signing?”
    He leaned against the doorframe. “No, I went to see what it was you did.”
    “When did you read my book?”
    “This afternoon.”
    The expression on her face changed from lighthearted fun to dark worry. She pulled at the collar on her compl imentary fluffy robe. “And what did you think?”
    He went around her and determinedly entered her suite. “We need to talk.”
    She gawked at him , her eyes round with astonishment. “Ty, you can’t just come in here without asking.”
    He examined the modest suite with a small sitting room done in pale tones of amber and gold, then turned to the adjoining bedroom and modest bath. Motioning to a half-packed black suitcase on her bed, he asked, “Are you leaving?”
    “Tomorrow. ” She shut her room door. “I’m heading to another convention in South Carolina.”
    He waved his hand about the suite while turning back to her. “Not as nice as mine.”
    “Well, I’m not a rich oil executive.”
    He lifted the right corner of his mouth in a half-smile. “No, you’re a rich and famous author.”
    “Well-off and not famous…not yet anyway.” She walked past him to her bedroom.
    “Ah, there’s a side of Monique Delome I don’t know. Since when have you craved fame and fortune?”
    She unwrapped the thick white towel from about her head, letting her wet blonde locks fall to her shoulders. “I’m not into fame or fortune, but I am into being successful enough not to have to worry about how I am going to eat tomorrow.”
    He moved toward her king-sized bed. “What, being married to a wealthy doctor didn’t get you a hefty divorce settlement?”
    Flinging the wet towel on the bed, she demanded, “How did you know Mat