Chapter 7
I think I’m losing my mind. No, I’m certain I am. You know when people talk about different stages of grief? Well, I’ve been going through different stages of kissing Mr. Nightingale.
First comes denial. I don’t want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to touch me. I want none of it. I don’t even like him, so why would I want to kiss him?
Next comes anger. He shouldn’t have done that. It’s all his fault.
And for a brief moment, I land on bargaining. If I can just kiss him again, then I’ll confirm to myself that there’s nothing there.
Then I go right back to denial, and the cycle continues. I will never land at acceptance, though. Because I refuse to accept what has occurred between us. Never.
The moment keeps replaying in my mind. I can’t get that to stop, no matter how hard I try. It’s like I’ve been conditioned to feel. Every time I hear the sound of a pen drop, my entire body jerks.
What is he doing to me?
I finally roll out of bed. I paint for fifteen minutes because it resets my head. I turn my brain off and just let my hands move. My wrists move smoothly as I flick the brush. It seems to be working. My mind is clear. He’s out of my head finally.
I step back to admire my work. “No…” A low gasp escapes my lips. Those devilish, skilled lips smirk at me. Gray eyes stare back at me. “Damn it.” I grab the canvas and rip it to shreds.
Damn him.
I clean the brushes quietly, then go back to sit on the edge of my bed. It’s time for Sunday math, especially since I have nothing better to do.
My notebook is on the nightstand. I reach for it and go through my weekly calculations — rent, utilities, bus pass, groceries, phone. There is a line at the bottom of the page, written in small type in the margin so I don't have to look at it head-on, that reads "art school."
I have been adding to it for three years. The number is closer than last year's, but it still isn’t enough. It would have been, if my mother hadn’t squandered my college fund.
The community art school in Santa Rosa has a fall semester that costs about $3,000, including the application fee and a basic supplies kit.
I have approximately $1,000 in the account at the credit union.
I have been doing this math every Sunday for three years, and the gap has never closed by more than $40 in a month.
Something always comes up. And the hotel doesn’t pay enough for basic amenities.
I barely have enough left to spare for my dream.
There’s a knock at the door.
I get up to unlock it. Maeve is standing on the other side. She’s in her studying sweatpants and a hoodie. She has her glasses pushed up into her hair. “Sorry. I know it's early."
I wave a hand. "It's fine. What’s up?"
Maeve stares down at her shoes. They’re a nice pair of sneakers. One I can’t afford. Sometimes I wonder why Maeve is in this crappy apartment. She has a choice, unlike I do.
"It's just…rent. You said last week."
Right. Rent. It is what you pay to ensure you have a roof over your head. I’m unfortunately short this month. Working exclusively at the penthouse suite has seriously affected my tips. So to afford rent, I’m probably going to have to dig into my savings for art school.
"And the light, I have to get the light bill paid before Friday because the auto-pay didn't go through last month. They’ve already sent the second notice, and I’m trying to study for my exams. I really need to ease up a little."
I nod. “I understand. I’ll have it tomorrow morning."
She looks up at me, wringing her fingers. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
She gives me a grateful smile and turns around. I close the door quietly, then click the lock. My eyes find the notebook. So much for art school. The numbers are about to get much smaller.
I take some cash from my savings, add to spending, and close the notebook.
There comes a point in your life when you start to wonder if your dreams are possible. I think I’m at that point.
Don’t say that, Suzy. You can still make it, I hear a voice say. It sounds like Marguerite, although I can’t be sure. I haven’t heard her voice in so long.
“Hey, Suzanne!” Maeve yells from the other side of my door. “There’s someone at the door for you.”
I stiffen. My first thought is my mother. She’s been here once, when I was foolish enough to let her know where I live. Maybe she’s come here to search for the jewelry and china herself.
“Thank you!” I yell back. I square my shoulders, adjust my sweatshirt, and go out to find out who exactly it is.
It’s not my mother. It’s a man I don’t recognize. He’s tall and lanky, with cropped dark hair and a neatly shaped beard. He’s wearing a suit and holding a small, brown envelope in one hand and a phone in the other.
I frown. Did my mother die?
"Suzanne Jenkins?"
"Yes?" I tilt my head back, just in case he tries to attack me on the request of my maybe dead mother.
"Good morning. I'm with the office of Marisol Vega. I'm here on behalf of Mr. Cade Nightingale. May I have one minute of your time?"
I furrow my eyebrows and bite the inside of my cheeks. So my mother is very much alive, but someone else is about to not be a part of the living.
I open the door. He opens the envelope and removes a check. He hands it across the threshold. I take it, just because I’m curious to see how much Cade Nightingale thinks I’m worth.
$15,000. Oh my god.
That’s a year of not asking Maeve to wait for my rent, two semesters at Santa Rosa, with money left over for materials. But it’s been offered by Cade Nightingale. And that in itself is the biggest problem of all.
I look at the man and hold the check out to him. "Take it back."
"Ms. Jenkins, the check has been issued in your name. It is a token of appreciation for your discretion. There is no further obligation."
"I said take it back."
"You don't have to cash it. If you don't cash it within ninety days, the funds will be returned to the issuing account. I'm simply delivering the — "
I tear it in half.
The paper rips clean. I hand the pieces back to him through the door. His hand opens up as if on instinct, and I dump the torn pieces in his palms.
"Tell Mr. Nightingale that if he wants to insult me, he can come do it himself."
I close the door and lock it. Then I sit down on the floor, and I laugh.
I’m back at the second stage — anger. That is what I feel as I sign in at the front desk. Carmen is already there. She looks up when I walk in. I know she’s been eager to see me. We haven’t had the chance to talk since Cade made a scene in front of everyone. It makes me wish I was late.
“Hey!” She waves me over even though we’re 3 ft. away. “How’s our Cinderella doing?”
I shoot her a glare. Frank comes around the corner with a clipboard and a phone tucked under his ear. “Good morning, Suzanne. Carmen.” He nods at both of us and continues on his way.
“Morning, Frank.” I finish signing in and slowly drop the pen. The last thing I want is to hear it hit the tile.
“So…are you finally going to tell me what’s going on between you and Mr. Nightingale? You’re being awfully tight-lipped about it,” Carmen says.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Roger was so scared — I swear I’ve never seen him that way.
He locked himself in the supply room for twenty minutes.
Can you imagine? If you ask me, he deserved it.
He has been a tiny shitty man on a tiny shitty salary for too long.
I really hope Mr. Nightingale buys this hotel so we can be rid of Roger once and for all.
” Then she pokes me with her elbow. “Hey, maybe you’ll have his job. ”
I groan. “Carmen…he didn’t mean that.”
“He definitely did, even if you’d like to believe otherwise.
But…” Carmen turns to face me fully. She lowers her voice.
“Even though I’m thrilled for you, whatever is going on between you and the man in the penthouse…
be careful. He’s a powerful man. They are usually pretty overwhelming.
” She stares at me meaningfully. “Take it from me.”
I blink at her. That’s when I realize I don’t know Carmen at all. She lets me see what she wants me to see, not every single thing about her. I’ve been so wrong.
“Thank you.”
Frank passes by again, and he stops in front of us this time. “What Roger did was wrong. If you ask me, he wasn’t yelled at enough for what he did.” He pats me on the shoulder lightly, then walks away.
“Looks like someone agrees with me.” Carmen pushes off the front desk. “I have to go. I’ll see you at lunch?”
“Yeah. I’ll be down early.”
She smiles at me and scurries off.
Before I can even move, Roger appears in front of me. “Jenkins!” He frowns up at me. This is the first time we’ve seen each other since “the incident,” because he's been avoiding me since then.
“Yes, Roger?”
“You’re late. Shouldn’t you be working by now? This is the kind of unprofessional behavior that…” He stops suddenly and glances around the hallway. His face goes red, as if he’s struggling to hold in what he wants to say.
I know it’s because of Cade’s threat. Roger must be terrified of him. I don’t blame him. Mr. Nightingale is quite intimidating.
“Just get to work, Jenkins.”
I don’t say anything. I turn and go retrieve my cart. After that, I head up to the penthouse. The anger is still there. I haven’t forgotten about Cade’s latest infraction. It seems he likes to push my buttons because I’m certain I told him to keep his money.
I fully intend on emphasizing that point today. I'm going up to that suite to give Cade Nightingale the piece of my mind he has earned.
He is at his desk when I open the bedroom door. He looks up, grins, and sets the tablet down. "Suzanne, how lovely of you to join me."
I hate it when he says my name. I hate the way it sounds on his lips. I especially hate the way it makes me feel.
“I don't want your money.” I leave my cart behind and march over to his desk. I’m grateful he’s sitting, so I can be the intimidating one for once. “Do you understand? I want nothing from you.”
“Hmm…” He gets to his feet slowly. He crosses to the bar cart. He pours water from a glass pitcher into two glasses. He brings one to my side of the desk and sets it down on the wood between us. “I won’t do it again if you don’t want me to…” His eyes find mine. “Suzanne.”
I grit my teeth. I refuse to give him the reaction he wants. “That’s not enough.”
“What will it take? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”
I open my mouth. I close it.
I came up here on my own steam and with a clear sentence.
I did not — at any point on the elevator or in the corridor or crossing the room — prepare for him to ask.
I look at the glass of water on the desk between us.
I feel, for the first time since I walked in, the sharp, clean edge of how tired I am.
He sits on the edge of the desk.
He is closer to me now than he has been since the kiss. I'm acutely aware of where his hand has come to rest on the wood. I'm aware of the distance between his knee and my hip. I don’t move.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"Did Roger bother you today?"
"No."
"If he bothers you again — "
"I don’t need you to fight Roger for me."
"I’m not asking your permission. If he bothers you again, I need you to come to me immediately."
I pick up the glass. I drink half of it in one swallow. The water is cold, and I did not know I was thirsty. I set the glass down. My hands are not steady. I hide them behind my back.
"I have to get back to work."
He stands up and moves toward the door so he’s between me and the cart now. I’m hit with a sense of déjà vu. This is how it happened the last time. It won’t happen today.
I walk past him. I’m reaching for the handle when he catches my wrist. My heart starts working overtime to pump blood through my veins. I keep my eyes fixed on the cart, on anything else but his face.
I stare at the cart handle. My mouth has gone dry, and the water did not fix it.
My pulse flinches at the inside of my wrist that he can feel, and the worst part is not that I'm afraid he will kiss me again.
It's that I'm afraid he will not. I don't know what I will do if he does, and I'm not certain I will stop him this time.
"Let go of me, Cade."
Surprisingly, he does. “Cade. You’re getting too comfortable with me.”
I ignore him and continue toward the door.
"Suzanne."
I close my eyes for half a second. I turn around.
He hasn’t moved since he let go of my wrist. "I haven’t stopped thinking about it."
I know what he means. How could I not? I was there. I haven’t stopped thinking about it either. The smart thing is to walk out the door.
But one thing about danger and desire is that it’s alluring. And when applied right, it’s impossible to resist.
So instead of walking out the door, I ask, "Thinking about what?"
He looks at me for a long moment. "The kiss."