Chapter 7
7
Preston
T he wheel of my suitcase catches on the carpet three more times before I make it to the elevator and bang the down button. So much for luxury brands.
The door glides open. I practically leap inside, exhaling heavily as the door slides shut.
What. The. Fuck. Was. That?
Natalie Archer, topless: pale, bare skin, gorgeous curves poured into a skimpy black lace bra and form-fitting leggings. Spike-heeled pink shoes I instantly wanted digging into my flanks.
Plus a no-fucks-to-give attitude that shouldn’t have made the ensemble even sexier but somehow did.
And I was a certified dick about the situation. Not for the first time today.
Finding my room already occupied was the last straw on a miserable day. It was like the universe knew my life was a temporary shit show and was chiming in with helpful additions. Even before the showdown in Hanna’s office, my jet sat on the runway for more than two hours while the best mechanics money can buy wrestled with the landing gear. The state-of-the-art airplane toilets got clogged, and the premium on-board fridge turned out to have died (no food). My driver didn’t show up in Bend, and the high-priced car service flailed like amateurs until I gave up and rented the best thing I could find at the tiny airport.
You could call an Uber, Franklin informed me while I waited for the rental company to produce my car, cursing expensive things that don’t do what you’ve paid a fortune for them to do.
I don’t have the app.
Download it.
I’d have to set up an account and create a password.
Franklin’s sigh suggested weary patience. I think this might be an example of first-world, rich-people problems
I think you might be right, I said tiredly.
And then, when I finally arrived, there was her .
Obstacle-ing the shit out of my already-complicated-enough life.
Dancing on the fucking desk.
Reaching for my tie and making all the blood in my entire body flee for the equator.
All I want is to keep this as simple as possible. Occupy my room. Dispatch the stupid will. Get the hell out of dodge. No complications. No distractions. And definitely, absolutely, no temptations .
And instead, here she is, making everything hard.
Not like that .
But yeah, definitely like that.
Obviously my grandfather’s point about all work and no play had some validity: It’s been way too long since I got laid.
And there’s nothing I hate more than my grandfather being right, even a little bit.
The elevator touches down on the main floor and opens. I head to the desk, where a pretty woman with short blond hair greets me for the second time. She’s not someone I’ve met on my previous visits to Rush Creek, so she must be new-ish.
I slide my keycard across the dark wood desktop. “This room is already occupied.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I don’t know how that happened, Mr. Hott!”
“It was awkward.”
She winces. “I can imagine. I’m so, so sorry. We can—comp you breakfast. And a drink at the bar?—”
“I’m not a paying guest,” I remind her. “All those things are already free.”
“Right,” she says. “Well…”
She falls silent.
“Just fix it,” I say.
“Of course, Mr. Hott. Right away.”
She’s back a moment later with a new key card.
“You’re sure this one is unoccupied.”
“Ninety-nine point…” She hesitates. “Two?”
“Good enough,” I say. “Hopefully I won’t see you again tonight.”
“Hopefully!” she says, then clasps her hand over her mouth. “Of course, Mr. Hott, we are always happy to see you and serve you in any way we?—
I raise my eyebrows skeptically, and she trails off.
“Good night, Mr. Hott,” she says, more subdued.
I don’t look at my room number until I’m standing in front of the numbered elevator buttons, and then I realize: It’s the room next to the one I was just in.
I go back to the desk. I don’t think it’s my imagination that she cringes slightly as I approach. Probably because I look like Dr. Doom, my expression reflecting my current attitude.
“I don’t suppose you have any other rooms left?” I ask.
She presses her lips together and shakes her head.
“Or you could trade this for a room reserved for someone who hasn’t checked in yet?”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Now she actually sounds sorry. “But as you know, it’s wedding season, and that room I just gave you is only open because a bridesmaid no-showed. It’s literally the last room we have left.”
Of course it is.
“There might be a cancellation at some point?” she says doubtfully. “They’re rare in summer, but it’s…possible?”
“Could you put me on the waiting list?”
“Of course, sir, but it’s—it’s a long waiting list.”
I frown.
“We could bump you to the top of the list, of course, sir,” she says quickly.
She hastily grabs for a pencil and scribbles something on a sticky note. I eye it suspiciously. A hundred bucks says the person on the next shift tosses that scrap of paper.
“Is that Hott Springs Eternal’s system for keeping notes?” I ask.
“There’s no way for the computer to remind us,” she says, biting her lip apologetically. “If I edit the room entry in the reservation software, no one will see it till you check out. You can check back in from time to time, see if something’s opened up.”
I make a mental reminder to let Hanna know she needs to research alternative systems—and one to come back on Monday and follow up about the waiting list.
I ride the elevator back to the floor I came from and let myself into the room next to hers .
It’s the twin to the one I just saw. Same cream-colored walls and exposed beams, same queen bed with chunky roughly hewn wood, same armoire, same woven blankets, rugs, and pillows.
I toss my suitcase onto the bed and unpack my things—it doesn’t take long. And then I settle myself on the bed and turn on the TV.
But even with the TV on, I can hear her next door. I can’t hear her music because of the earbuds, but the sound of her shoes on the desk reverberates through my brain.
I can see her in my mind’s eye.
Round face; wild curly dark hair; curvy, generous body. What was left of her clothing hid nothing—not the plump triangle where her thighs met nor the glorious swerve of her ass, and definitely not the nipples poking hard against the flimsy black lace of her bra.
She was dancing like no one was watching, her hips rocking and swaying, every soft, pale lickable part of her in motion.
I can picture her moments later, too, standing in front of me, one hip cocked slightly to the side, a teasing smile on her face, hand reaching for my tie. Confident and challenging, the kind of woman who could be caught dancing topless by her boss’s brother and laugh about it.
I close my eyes, but I can still see her, a snapshot memory, on the inside of my lids.