Chapter 8 #2
I can’t get over how plush the carpet is under-foot, springy and soft with every step.
It’s kind of awkward wheeling a suitcase through this incredibly extravagant lobby—all the other arriving guests have handed over their luggage.
But it’s still less awkward than having to figure out how much to tip. Do I even have any cash?
There’s more marble in the elevator, and all the buttons are vintage brass.
The man told me to press the “P” button in the elevator, and while that struck me as odd, it’s not until I see it above all the other numbered floors that I realize it must mean penthouse. What?!
I have to tap my room key to get the button to stay lit, and the elevator whirs upward.
I step out into a little foyer. There’s only one door, just across from the elevator, past a little table and a leather chair. I tap my key card again, push the door open, and step into the most insanely luxurious hotel suite conceivable.
The expansive space is light, bright, modern. I recognize the decor as Japandi, the fusion of Japanese and Scandinavian design that’s popped up in more than one episode of Home Wreck Fixer.
Bewildered, I step inside. The far wall is all windows, giving an uninterrupted view of the cityscape beyond. There’s a kitchenette to my right, and a light feature made of a thousand little arcs of glass like scales rolls across the ceiling.
I am literally breathless—like if I breathe too much I’ll shatter this illusion.
But then I hear her voice, and my eyes snap right to where she sits on the creamy white couch, and it’s all too real.
“That’s what the bellhops are for,” she says, inclining her chin towards my suitcase.
“I don’t mind,” I murmur. Is she teasing again? I can’t tell.
I have a moment of panic that Morgan and I are sharing a room, but then I realize that there are no beds in this room. Two of the four doors in the suite are open, and I see a bed beyond each.
“This place is, like, four times the size of my apartment…” I don’t realize I spoke aloud until Morgan chuckles.
“Your room is on the right,” she says.
I nod. Then stand there. I think I’m waiting for her to release me.
“Feel free to unpack. Dinner’s in an hour.”
I slink into my room, resisting the urge to move too quickly. Once the door is closed behind me, I throw myself across the beautiful white bed, melting into the soft cotton and plush mattress.
My room has another panoramic floor-to-ceiling view, and there are two other doors leading off of it. As nice as it is to be horizontal, curiosity gets me back on my feet.
There’s a surprisingly large closet, and the other door opens into an expansive en suite bathroom, bold black and white with a gorgeous marble shower. There’s like… ten different sprayers in the shower. Under another giant window stands a massive claw-foot tub.
I’m in heaven. I’ve died and I’m in heaven. I wriggle out of my clothes, eager to wash the trip’s residue off my body, and the shower is steaming hot within a second of turning it on. I tone it down to something that won’t boil my skin and step into the criss-crossing streams of water.
My hair goes up in the elastic I keep on my wrist, and I read through the little luxury bottles of shampoo and body wash. I feel kind of silly having carefully packed away full-size bottles of all my usual products in my carry-on. These are probably way nicer.
The body wash smells like citrus and the rain forest, and I luxuriate in the scent as the water washes over me.
When I’m done, I grab a towel from the rack, and it’s warm, like fresh-from-the-dryer perfectly warm.
Of course this place has a towel warmer.
I pause at the mirror to shave and change into my gold hoop earrings, then swipe some fancy moisturizer over my tattoo sleeve, brightening the colors again after the dryness of the plane.
Back in the bedroom, I tip my suitcase over, digging out some briefs before staring at the rest of my clothes.
What the fuck do I wear to dinner?
What kind of place does Morgan Hunter, billionaire CEO, go out to dinner?
Michelin star, my manager said. I pull out my phone and punch that into the map, scrolling through the hits nearby.
Crap, these places are fancy. All four out of four dollar signs. With dress codes.
I don’t have anything but jeans and sweaters. Jayda had assured me they’d be great for the events. Now, I wish I’d asked about dinner too. Is this just something people know when they travel with CEOs?
I flop onto the bed, hoping the answer will come to me if I give my body some time to decompress. I close my eyes, thinking about my options.
It was a mistake.
I wake to a knock at my door and Morgan’s voice saying, “Ready?”
Shit. Shit shit shit. “Uh, almost!”
I opt for dark green jeans and a beige cable-knit sweater, mostly because they’re on top and at least match each other.
I yank the sweater over my head, scrunch my hair, nearly trip pulling on my socks and slipping into my only shoes that aren’t sneakers—slightly beat-up leather loafers—and open the door.
Morgan’s standing there, cool as ever, wearing a lilac off-the-shoulder shirt and matching wide-leg pants, the set showing a sliver of skin between them. She looks as if she just walked out of a magazine.
Her eyes flick down, up. “That’s what you’re wearing to dinner?”
“Yeah?” Oh god, I’m going to drop dead of embarrassment. My cheeks heat. I don’t know what to say. Maybe that I feel too sick to go out and these clothes are my, uh, pajamas?
“Good,” she says. “I like it. Very on-trend.”
She turns towards the hotel room door.
I’m reeling. Morgan Hunter, Morgan fucking Hunter, complemented my fashion sense?
Wait, unless she’s teasing me again?
She’s at least not too embarrassed to be seen with me in public, so… I’m going to count that as a win.