11. Elena
11
ELENA
A fter the first moment of shock, I can see that the words are written in paint, not blood. Still, I feel a little sick staring at the lurid red letters. They’re messy and lopsided, the product of a crazed and deranged mind. Or somebody with terrible penmanship.
But as I step closer to examine them, I think maybe the material was the problem. This isn’t paint either.
I lean forward and sniff. Tomato sauce?
Now I’m suspecting Olivia all over again. It would be easy for a waitress to get her hands on tomato sauce. Though, I guess it would be equally easy for anybody who’s visited a grocery store.
The question is, why? I’ve been here two days. How do I have an enemy already? And how did they get into my room?
My stomach churns, realizing this person must have snuck inside sometime between 8 p.m. and this morning. Did they know I was in the infirmary? Or did they break into my room expecting to find me sound asleep in bed?
I snatch up the phone receiver, suddenly afraid to be alone in my own room. But I hesitate, fingers hovering over the buttons. My first impulse was to call Atlas. This is his hotel, his wallpaper that was ruined. And if I’m honest with myself, at the first bolt of fear, I craved his massive, reassuring presence.
But I should probably call Lorne first. He’s likely opening the door to his own hotel room right now, or else settling down at his desk, opening his laptop.
He might be annoyed at the interruption. I already made him miss an hour of work this morning.
And after all, it’s just some tomato sauce. This could be…a prank.
But as I look at the dripping letters, I don’t think so. Somebody wants me out of here.
I dial the front desk.
“Front desk, Amy speaking,” a familiar voice chirps.
“Hi, Amy, it’s Elena Zelenska in room 609.”
“Of course!” I can hear Amy’s smile. “What can I do for you, Elena?”
“Someone’s vandalized my room.”
The heavy tread in the hallway and the low, firm knock tell me that Atlas has come. I get the sweep of relief I was craving even before I open the door.
The feeling of security doubles once Atlas is inside, taking up most of my living room. Even the giant bloody letters look smaller and less intimidating next to him.
Atlas stands there staring at the message for several minutes, scowling. Then he checks the door, the windows, and even looks inside the closet. Finally, he examines the chairs in the living room, peering at one seat in particular that seems dirty.
“I’ll have the lock changed on this room,” he says at last. After a pause, he says, “Would you like me to give your fiancé a spare key again?”
I flush, sensitive to the implication. “Lorne didn’t do this.”
“I never said he did.”
Well, your eyes sure did.
But why would Lorne do this? Is he getting tired of me already? Regretting that he brought me here?
He still hasn’t given me a ring…
On the other hand, would he be so jealous of Atlas if he wanted to be rid of me?
Possibly. Men are prideful, covetous of their toys even if they don’t want to play with them anymore.
But Lorne wouldn’t do this. He loves me. He was worried about me last night. He came to see me first thing this morning.
And if he wrote all over my wall, wouldn’t he have come inside the room with me to see my reaction?
Atlas is still watching me.
Flustered, I say, “Maybe it was Mrs. Cross. I’m pretty sure she hates me.”
“She could have taken your fiancé’s spare key,” Atlas agrees. Though maybe just to throw a little of the blame back onto Lorne.
I’m still considering the flirty waitress, but I don’t say that to Atlas because I don’t want to accuse his employee. Especially when I might be just a wee bit prejudiced against the stunning blond who captured my fiancé’s attention so effortlessly.
Instead, I say, “Sorry about your wallpaper.”
Atlas makes a low, grunting sound. “I’ve got rolls of it stored away. Trust me, I’ve had guests smear way worse shit than that on the wall. Literally.”
“In a place this nice?”
“The wealthiest guests treat the rooms the worst. Then bitch the most if I charge them for it.”
I laugh. “That sounds right. I worked at a fancy steakhouse once—the tips were better at my breakfast shift at the Greek café.”
“How many jobs have you had?” Atlas asks curiously.
“Quite a few.” I duck my head, embarrassed to admit, “I dropped out of school pretty early.”
“How early?” Atlas asks, still curious, without judgment or disdain.
Gazing down at the carpet and wishing I’d never brought it up in the first place, I mumble, “Fifteen.”
“You didn’t like it?”
“No. I mean, I liked some of my classes, but that’s not why I left. I had to move in with my uncle and aunt. I guess I could have switched schools, but they don’t have much money. I felt guilty, thought I should get a full-time job to help out.”
“Where were your parents?”
“Dead,” I say, expecting awkwardness to ensue as it usually does when people feel compelled to offer their pithy sympathy. “It was a car accident.”
I was in the car, too, lying across the back seat asleep on the way home from the movies. Which is why I got off with a sprained wrist and two cracked ribs while my parents were…obliterated.
Sometimes I wish I were hurt worse. Maybe then I wouldn’t feel so guilty.
“I’m sorry,” Atlas says. “My parents are gone, too.”
“Oh.” I’m not glad to hear that, but it does create a certain kind of understanding between us. I definitely don’t have to worry about Atlas spouting off platitudes like they’re in a better place now or everything happens for a reason…
Instead, Atlas says, “What did one orphan say to the other?”
“What?”
“Get in the Batmobile, Robin.”
I snort. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, well. Blame my brother for that one.”
“You have a brother? Does he live here?”
“He’s got a house outside of town. You might run into him sometime or other—he’s a doctor, too, the best in Grimstone. The only one in Grimstone, but he’d be the best even if there were a couple others.”
I snicker softly, recognizing the pride and affection in Atlas’s voice even while he tries to play it down.
“And what’s your job now?” Atlas asks. “Or, what was it?”
“I ran a little bookstore in Lviv. Perfect fit for me.”
“You were sorry to leave?” Atlas says, smiling.
“Yes.” I’m remembering my last look at the cozy little corner shop with its brick walls, blue-shuttered windows, and window boxes of geraniums that I planted myself.
After all the time I worked there, six days a week, opening in the morning, locking up at night, I almost felt like I owned the place. But, of course, I didn’t.
“The shop was sold,” I tell Atlas. “So I was going to lose my job either way.”
“One of those big-box chains snapped it up?”
“Even worse—a developer. It probably won’t be a bookstore at all anymore.”
“What a shame,” Atlas says. “I’m sorry you lost your favorite job.”
“It’s not so bad. I always wanted to come to America.”
“How’s it living up to your expectations?”
I consider. “Pretty much everything I knew about America came from movies and books. So I have to admit, I’ve been a bit disappointed by the lack of varsity jackets and palm trees.”
Atlas gives a rough chuckle that does dangerous things to me. “I might still have my old varsity jacket tucked away somewhere.”
“Really?” The image that puts in my head is even more dangerous—a youthful, sweaty Atlas engaged in physical activity is not something I should be imagining. Yet I can’t stop myself from asking, “What sport did you play?”
“It’s more like which one didn’t I play. And the answer’s swimming—I sink like a stone. Football was my favorite.”
“I pity the opposite team.”
“Don’t bother—they’re all dead,” Atlas deadpans. Then winks at me.
My stomach explodes in butterflies.
Oh shit…
I’m a complete sucker for a good wink. Atlas’s was so sly and sexy, it just about knocked me off my feet. It was more than a wink—it’s another naughty secret between us.
I don’t want to make secrets with Atlas. I don’t want to feel this attraction. I flew halfway across the world to marry Lorne , my fiancé. This is wrong. I’m being a bad person right now.
Clearing my throat and not quite looking at Atlas, I say, “I better get going. Thanks for coming up here, and I’m sorry again for the damage.”
Atlas frowns, either at the abrupt change in mood or at my apology. “It’s not your fault someone broke into your room. If anything, I should be apologizing to you. Do you want me to move you to another suite?”
That might make me feel a little safer. But I already know the hotel is fully booked, so I don’t want to cause trouble for Atlas. And besides, I love this room with its vaulted ceilings and view of the garden. It doesn’t feel dangerous anymore, as if the presence of Atlas not only secured the space but forever banished the possibility of future intruders.
“I think I’ll be fine here. Especially if you change the locks.”
“I’ll do it this afternoon,” Atlas promises.
“Thank you.”
There’s no reason for us to keep standing here, but we both do, gazing at each other instead of the view spread out below the grand picture window. It’s hard not to look at Atlas—he dominates the room, his features dark and intense, jaw like granite and black eyebrows like furious slashes on his face.
He smiles at me because I haven’t moved.
I smile back at him because neither has he.
“Where do you have to go?” he asks.
“Oh.” My smile wobbles on my face. “Lorne said I should buy some new clothes. But I don’t really know what to get. Or where to shop…”
I trail off, hoping Atlas might have a good suggestion despite the fact that there isn’t a store on the planet with off-the-rack clothes that size. His suits must all be custom-made.
Atlas slips a business card out of his breast pocket, along with a sleek silver pen. He turns the card over to write on the back. When he passes it to me, The Dapper Dress, Vivian , is written in his clean, precise script.
“Vivian is a friend. Tell her I sent you.”
I’m not sure if I’ll actually have the balls to name-drop Atlas to this Vivian person for a discount, but I’m grateful for the recommendation either way.
I flip the card over to the front side, noting that Atlas’s full name is Atlas Westerbrook Covett and wondering, despite my virtuous intentions, whether the phone number listed is his personal line.
“Thank you,” I say again.
Atlas doesn’t move, looking me right in the eye. “I want you to call me. If anything else happens.”
He closes my fingers around the card, his huge hand completely enveloping mine. The butterflies in my gut are still swirling, with no intention of settling down.
“I mean it, Elena. Passing out last night, and now this?—”
“That could be coincidence,” I say, though I don’t really believe it.
Firm as a mountain, Atlas shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
I agree with him, actually. And the thought that someone is out to get me should terrify me.
But somehow, with my hand inside of Atlas’s and his dark eyes fixed on mine, I don’t feel frightened.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like everything’s going to be okay.