Chapter 7
I’m a smart guy, I really am. I might have the manners of someone raised by wolves (and I kind of was), but I’m plenty smart. But sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.
Alex and I headed up Rabbit Ears Pass on roads that had been scraped right down to the pavement, and salt and grit spread all around, ruining everyone’s paint jobs. But at least all the ice was gone, and within an hour, we entered the ski town of Steamboat Springs.
The hustle and bustle was going on with lots of traffic, and people in parkas and sturdy boots waiting at every single traffic light. All I wanted to do was get to The Anchorage and plop my ass on a bed. But I had to drop Alex off first, and then join the Westmores for Christmas dinner.
“Which way to your hotel?” I asked.
He gave me the address, and I blinked at him.
“That’s The Anchorage,” I said. The pictures had shown it to be a pretty fancy place, halfway up the hill overlooking the pretty little downtown. There was even a way to pretty much ski from the entrance to the hotel, though I wasn’t into that.
“Yes, it’s The Anchorage,” he said, doing his best to charm me with his smile and his beautiful blue eyes. It was working, but I was still confused.
“Why didn’t you tell me where you were staying when I told you where I was staying?”
He just shrugged.
I guided the Volvo up the hill to where The Anchorage sat, a multi story lodge-looking place. And yeah, I used valet parking because why not?
I tossed the key fob to the valet and dragged out my duffle while Alex grabbed his two leather suitcases. Alex tipped the guy with a ten-dollar bill, making me blink again. He was loaded, sure, but the valet parking was mine to take care of.
With a shrug, I followed him into the main lobby while the valet drove off. There were some people waiting in front of me in line to check in, and then Alex tugged on my arm.
“I got to go buy a phone and call Tokyo,” he said. “Meet us at six-ish at the Antlers. Tell the host you’re dining with the Westmores, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, and watched him dash off.
I’m pretty sure his mother would want to know he’d arrived before any business call took place, but he was the CEO of something-or-other, so mom would have to wait because obviously Tokyo came first. Meanwhile, I stood in line and was soon at the front, my grubby duffle slung over my shoulder, my sticky bun-speckled blue fleece jacket on full display.
“Malachi Beckett,” I said when I got to the fancy-looking reception desk, smiling without any apology for the fact that I did not fit in with the finely dressed rich folk who were standing in line behind me. “I’m here to check in.”
“Welcome, Mr. Beckett,” said the guy. Steve, his nameplate said.
“Call me Beck,” I said.
“Certainly Beck,” he said. Then he consulted with his computer system and handed me two plastic keys in a little cardboard sleeve. I thought that would be it, but he gestured to someone behind me.
“Ralph will take you to your room,” he told me.
“I can find it,” I said, not hiding my indignation. When I was a kid, I used to wander around the downtown hotels, scouring the long corridors, taking anything that wasn’t nailed down. I knew how to find my own way around, you betcha.
“Ralph will take you,” said Steve, all smooth and suave. “Just follow him.”
Usually clerks in hotels give you a paper map that they quickly draw all over in yellow highlighter, like they couldn’t wait to get rid of you.
But this hotel, I noticed, had placards all over the place with the layout of the hotel on them.
Which was how I knew Ralph was leading me to the elevator that led to the penthouse suites.
“Hey, Ralph,” I said as he stepped into the elevator and pressed a button to hold the doors open. “I got a double queen with a balcony.”
“You have a penthouse suite, sir,” he said, ever polite. “Mr. and Mrs. Westmore insisted that your reservation be changed.”
The Westmores must have some clout to make such a change happen on Christmas Eve, sure. But the reason I stepped into that elevator without any more protest was because I knew Mrs. Jasmine I-Am-Rich Westmore would give me hell for saying no. They sure were getting their way with me.
Part of me wanted to resent it. The other part of me was damn curious to see the room as the nearly silent elevator shot up a bunch of flights before stopping.
When the doors opened, I could see right away that it was posh. It was as quiet as if the fancy carpet was absorbing all the sound. At one end of the corridor, I could see the hotel bent at an angle.
At the other end of the corridor was a huge window with a balcony that overlooked a hillside of snow with giant green pine trees, creating a boundary of sorts. Could I see people skiing on that hillside, or was that my imagination?
“This way, sir,” said Ralph. He looked like he wanted to carry my duffle, but I wouldn’t give it to him. Instead, it hung by my fingers over my shoulder and I marched solemnly behind Ralph to where they were putting me.
My original room had been two queens, with a balcony that overlooked the parking lot. However—yeah, the Westmores had gone all out.
Ralph opened the door with his master key and ushered me into the nicest place I had ever stayed.
There was a balcony at the far end, and it not only looked enormous, it overlooked the hillside I’d seen earlier.
There was nice furniture, including a dining room table, and a gas fireplace that was already lit.
Sunlight poured into the place, splashing gold and blue and sparkles everywhere.
The penthouse suite was huge and elegant, and way out of my league. But what the hell.
“Where’s the bedroom?” I asked before Ralph could give me the grand tour. I just wanted to put my feet up and maybe shower before I had to face the Westmores.
“In here, sir,” said Ralph in an utterly calm voice, as if he escorted bad boys into a penthouse suite every day.
I found the bedroom, flung my grubby duffle bag on the bed that looked soft and heavenly, and then went out to the main area where Ralph was still waiting. He was holding out his hand, but as I reached for my wallet, I realized he was holding out a little card of expensive paper.
“Just call this number at any time, and you’ll be able to schedule your hot tub session whenever you like.”
“Thank you,” I said because new me had manners and shit. I pulled out a tenner and handed it to him, and he was utterly unfazed by the amount, as if he received ten dollar tips every day.
“Just call the front desk if you need anything, sir,” he said. “And Mrs. Westmore said to remind you that dinner is at six in The Antlers, which you’ll find on the first floor.”
“Thanks,” I said, remembering my manners. There was no way I was going to admit to anyone that I was overwhelmed, but I was. The room was too elegant, and I stood in the middle of the main area like a lonely, badly dressed waif who had taken a wrong turn.
But that only lasted a minute because I was Bad Boy Beck, and nothing phased me, not even classy opulence. I tore off my clothes and hopped into the biggest rain shower ever, turned the water on hot, and scrubbed myself all over with fancy, silky feeling soap from the dispenser on the tiled wall.
You could have fit a football team in that shower, and while that would have been a lot of fun, it would have been even nicer to share it with Alex. He, however, was off somewhere, and the Westmores awaited me.
I showed, and even put on deodorant, which made me smell even more shower fresh than I already did. Then I shaved, brushed my teeth, and put on the cleanest black clothes I could find. I even ran a washcloth over my Doc Martens to get the last of the snow crud off.
The washcloth was a goner, so I threw it away, right before I saw there was a wicker basket with black micro cloths for freaking shoes and boots. Oh well. I knew they’d make more.
With my trusty keycard in hand, I headed down the penthouse elevator to the first floor, and fumbled my way to The Antlers, there to announce my presence.
The place was packed. It was decorated for Christmas, of course, with tinsel hanging from the ceiling, and a Christmas tree (fully decorated) in each corner.
Everyone was dressed in their best, and the wine was flowing freely, laughter and jocularity rising to the rafters.
The room smelled like pine trees and happiness.
“Uh,” I said. “I’m with the Westmores?”
No, my voice did not rise because I was anxious or overwhelmed. I just wanted to make sure the haughty-looking host could hear me over the fun everybody was having.
“Are you sure, sir?” he asked. His nameplate said Albert.
He was about to ask again when someone (maybe a waitress?) came up behind him and whispered in his ear. Albert looked at me as though I was a forgotten survivor from the Titanic, his eyebrows shooting up into his hairline.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said now, his tone much more friendly. “Would you follow me?”
I followed him. We went around the edge of the room, to the far end, where he opened a wooden door, and stood to one side.
Before I could take in the elegant little room with its wood-paneled walls and the huge glass-backed shelves of wine and high-end alcohol, I got rushed. And by that I mean, people came up to me and hugged me and shouted my name and said thank you for saving Alex, dear Alex. No lie.
Back home, I would have balled my fists and fought my way out of such a crowd.
But I saw Alex standing back with a smile and realized who they were.
Mom, Dad, and Sis and, of course, little Baby Ginny, held in Sis’s arms. And another guy.
I don’t know who he was, but he was standing at Sis’s side like he belonged there.
“Pete, can you take the baby,” said the young woman who was Sis.