15. Anika
ANIKA
I ’m having a full-blown panic attack in the world’s fanciest toilet.
I push away from the door with a grunt. “This is not a real date.”
The bathroom is ridiculous. I mean truly, properly ridiculous.
A crystal chandelier dangles from the ceiling.
The walls are covered in what appears to be actual gold leaf.
The sink looks carved from a single piece of marble, with gold taps shaped like swans.
Even the toilet looks too fancy to actually use.
Is this how rich people pee? The mirror stretches across an entire wall, framed in what looks like even more gold, making me wonder if I’ve accidentally stumbled into some modern-day Versailles.
I stare at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed pink, my eyes too bright. I look…happy. Dangerously happy.
“It’s just dancing,” I tell my reflection. “Just dancing with a man who smells like pine trees and looks at you like you’re the Stanley Cup.”
This bathroom has a chaise lounge. A chaise lounge!
As if people regularly need to lie down while visiting the toilet.
Next to the chaise sits a small table with fresh flowers and—I’m not joking—a bowl of individually wrapped Swiss truffles.
I unwrap one and pop it in my mouth, because if I’m having a crisis, I might as well have chocolate while doing it.
The rich caramel melts on my tongue as I pace the marble floor in my borrowed shoes. This dress that Griffin sent…it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn. And the way he looked at me when I stepped out of that limo…
No. No, no, no. I cannot think about that look. That look is dangerous. That look makes me forget about Thomas and dating lessons and everything else.
“He’s your dating coach,” I remind myself sternly. “He’s teaching you how to impress another man.”
But then I remember how his voice went all deep and rumbly when he told me I looked beautiful. How his hand kept finding the small of my back, like it belonged there…the way he twirled me across the dance floor like we’d been dancing together our whole lives.
“Ooohh!” I chirp, grabbing another chocolate. This one has a hazelnut center.
I’ve never felt this way before. Not ever. Not with anyone. My stomach flips every time Griffin smiles at me. My skin tingles where he touches me.
Is this what attraction feels like? Because if it is, how do people function? How do they go about their daily lives feeling like this and not spontaneously combust?
I fan my face with my hands. Is it hot in here, or is it just the memory of Griffin’s breath on my neck?
I’m counting down the seconds until I have to go back out there and pretend I’m not falling for Griffin McGregor.
Because I’m not. I’m absolutely, positively not falling for him. That would be ridiculous. Catastrophic. The worst idea in the history of ideas.
I splash cold water on my wrists, but it does nothing to extinguish the warmth spreading through my body. Griffin’s hands are still burning imprints on my waist, my back, my fingertips.
“Listen to me,” I tell my reflection firmly. “This is practice. PRACTICE.”
Griffin is being nice because that’s his job as my dating coach. He probably acts this way with everyone.
My reflection looks unconvinced.
Besides, even if (and this is a massive if) he did feel something, he’s leaving. Going back to Canada when the lockout ends. And I’m staying here. With the pub. With my quiet life.
The thought makes my chest ache.
A soft knock at the door startles me.
“Just a moment,” I call, gathering my composure.
I straighten my shoulders and take one final look in the mirror. The woman staring back at me looks like a princess. A slightly panicked princess who’s eaten too many emergency chocolates, but a princess nonetheless.
“Time to go back out there and remember this isn’t real,” I tell her firmly.
But as I reach for the door handle, I can’t help wondering. What if it could be?
I open the door, half-expecting to see Griffin, but he’s not there. I’m so distracted, I nearly collide with a woman standing directly in my path.
“Sorry, my fault,” I mumble, sidestepping to avoid her.
The woman doesn’t move. She’s elegant in a silver sheath dress that hugs her slim frame, her blonde hair pulled into a sleek chignon. Her cool, assessing eyes lock onto mine as her wine glass tilts, almost in slow motion.
Dark red splashes across the front of my beautiful dress.
I gasp, looking down at the spreading stain.
“Oh dear,” she says, her British accent crisp. “What a terrible accident.”
“It’s okay, I can?—”
Before I can even continue, a man in an impeccably tailored suit appears beside me, his hand gripping my elbow with casual authority.
“Excuse me, sir!”
The man’s grip tightens just enough to signal this isn’t a request. “Let’s step back inside, shall we?” he says with a smooth British accent, steering me back inside the restroom.
The bathroom door clicks shut behind us, the man’s broad shoulders blocking the exit, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he locks the door.
My pulse hammers in my throat. “What are you?—”
“We have ninety seconds before the target suspects our presence,” he says to the woman, completely ignoring me.
The woman stands between me and the sinks, while the man leans against the door. I’m trapped between them like a rabbit about to get eaten by wolves.
“What do you want?” I demand, my voice embarrassingly squeaky. “If you’re planning to rob me, I should warn you I left my wallet at home.”
The woman pulls a compact from her clutch and checks her reflection. “Your hockey player,” she says, snapping it shut. “How well do you know him?”
I blink rapidly, trying to process. “I…We’re just…”
“He’s not who you think he is,” the man says cryptically.
The air suddenly feels too warm, too still. “Griffin? What are you talking about?”
The woman leans closer. “Your date is in over his head, and he’s playing a very dangerous game with people who don’t lose gracefully.”
“Who are you people?” I demand, thinking I could probably take these two on if it came down to it. I’d hate to fight in this dress though.
They exchange a look that communicates volumes in silence.
“Friends. Of a sort,” the man says, which is absolutely not an answer. “And you should be grateful we found you first.”
“First, before what?” My voice rises. “What is happening?”
The woman steps around me, encroaching upon my space until I back up against the vanity. “The less you know, the better. For both of you.”
“Sixty seconds,” the man says, checking his watch.
“Is this some kind of joke?” I ask, though nothing about their expressions suggests humor.
“Do we look like we’re joking?” The man’s voice drops lower. “You need to get your boyfriend out of here. Now.”
“Griffin isn’t my boyfriend,” I correct automatically, then shake my head. “And why…?”
“Because,” the woman cuts in. “he’s either in danger or he is the danger. And you don’t want to wait around to find out which.”
The man steps closer to me. “There are forces at work here beyond your understanding, Miss Gisler.”
My stomach drops. “How do you know my name?”
The woman’s lips curve into something too sharp to be a smile. “We know a lot of things. Including that your…not-boyfriend…has entangled himself in something that could get him killed.”
“Killed? Does Malcolm Chase have anything to do with this?”
My mind is racing. Griffin said something about an investment opportunity. And that Malcolm guy gave me the creeps.
“Malcolm Chase isn’t who Griffin should be worried about,” the man says, his voice low. “Just get the hockey player to take you home.”
“And if I don’t?” I challenge, though my voice trembles.
The man’s smile is cold as winter. “Then we can’t guarantee what happens next.”
“To him… or to you,” the woman adds.
The man unlocks the door. “Thirty seconds.”
“Get him to leave,” the woman warns. “Tell him you’re ill. Tell him anything. Family emergency. Sexual proposition. Whatever works.”
Ha! I’ve never been kissed. I certainly am not going to do…that.
“And don’t mention anything about this conversation,” the man adds. “The less he knows, the safer you both are.”
“Why should I trust you? I don’t even know who you are!”
“Because if you don’t,” the woman says ominously. “he might not make it back to Canada in one piece.”
My stomach drops. “Are you threatening him?”
“Warning you,” the man corrects. “There are people here tonight who would consider Mr. McGregor…expendable.
The woman reaches past me to wet a towel, hovering near my ear. “Remember,” she whispers. “Say nothing about us.”
Then, pressing the towel into my hands, she says, louder now, “For your dress. Club soda and salt when you get home.”
“Time’s up,” the man says to the woman, straightening his already perfect tie. “Easterly exit in three minutes.”
She nods, then turns to me. “Choose wisely, Miss Gisler.”
“What do you mean choose wisely?” I ask, but the woman is already moving toward the door.
The man gives me one last look. “Get him out. Immediately. And Miss Gisler?” The man’s eyes twinkle. “Trust no one else here. Including your date.”
He opens the door, checking both ways before they both slip out, leaving me alone with the terrifying realization that Griffin has been keeping secrets.
What just happened? Who were those people? And what does Griffin have to do with any of this?
My dress is stained with red wine. I dab at it halfheartedly with the damp towel, but it’s hopeless. At least the color isn’t showing up too badly against the deep blue.
I need to find Griffin. Whatever those people were warning me about, I need to get us both out of here.