Chapter 1 Jane
JANE
A jarring cackle of laughter that sounds like a pack of nipping toy dogs rushes into the elevator with me. Three chattering women follow, lanyards around two of their necks, all their gaits off-kilter.
Great, the women are drunk or well on their way.
I back up and try to put as much distance as possible between us.
My back hits the elevator wall as the doors slide together, shutting out the hotel lobby.
Undeterred or oblivious to my presence, the women yammer on about alpha males and their favorite fictional heroes.
This is the last thing I need. Can’t a girl catch a break and wallow alone?
Huddling in the corner of the elevator, I cling to my oversized bag and try to ignore what they’re talking about. Involuntarily, I flinch whenever a woman sighs blissfully while another waxes poetically about abs, orgasms, and romance.
Kill me now.
I swipe at the corner of my eye and a black smudge of mascara now coats my finger. It’s too late to salvage my make-up, my dignity, and at this point, my life.
The mirrored walls taunt me. There’s no getting around the feral raccoon staring back at me.
My dark hair is a tangled disaster and the remains of my red lipstick bleed beyond the edges of my mouth.
At least my dress still looks amazing, but it isn’t enough to cover the scars left by the night’s events.
I’m a literal mess.
My reflection makes me want to revive my crying marathon. The very one I’d just had to choke back before approaching the front desk of the Vivaldi, a ritzy hotel in Houston.
There’s nothing more humbling than begging for a room at nearly midnight on a Friday with only the clothes on your back. A life in pieces.
Unfortunately, the super attentive hotel clerk, Manuel, remembered me from when we checked in only days ago.
Lucky me.
He knew I already had a room and said as much. How did I explain that I’d rather eat glass than stay in that room?
Manuel vehemently impressed upon me that the hotel was fully booked, and he couldn’t help me.
The Vivaldi is abuzz this first week in November, one of their busiest months, with a romance authors’ conference—I’m pretty sure the women in the elevator are here for that—a wedding, and final championship game in baseball.
That’s why I was here. I’m with the out of town team, the Philadelphia Flashes, and we’re all staying at the hotel. To think, I was beyond excited to come this weekend. On top of the world, even.
Ugh. The fall was long and bumpy, and I’ll definitely have bruises.
Despite all that, the clerk came through and put me in one of the presidential suites. We were both surprised it was available, and I didn’t even want to know how much it would cost, but that wasn’t my problem.
Monty will think of me when he gets his hefty credit card statement.
Choke on that, asshole. Though it hardly scratches the surface of all the bullshit and heartache he’s put me through over the years, and I’m only twenty.
How pathetic is that?
I suppose things can’t get any worse, can they?
A hoot from the blonde woman only feet away causes me to snap out of my pity party. Enough. It all worked out. I have a room.
The elevator dings as the doors slide open, the women amble out, and one of them glances back at me, smiling. “Have a good night.”
I should keep my mouth shut—my predicament has nothing to do with them—but I can’t help myself.
“Good luck, ladies. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” My finger hovers over the button to close the doors as they spin to face me. “Romance is dead.”
One woman gasps and another sputters and the bright, blushing joy falls from their faces. They look at me like I just killed their dog, and the elevator doors close.
Regret pinches at my chest, and I rest my head against the cool glass wall.
I’m not usually rude to strangers unless they have it coming, and these women didn’t.
They were minding their own business, but my bitterness got the better of me.
Yet I feel like someone had to tell them like it is or maybe I was stupidly trying to make myself feel better.
Romance books are a beautiful thing, no doubt. I love them—devour them—but they’re a means of escape. In reality, I’ve never met a man who makes me weak in the knees or is so selfless that my pleasure drives his sole purpose.
I’ve never had a man give me multiple orgasms, or more to the point, the only man I’ve ever been with has never been able to give me one. I consider myself blessed if I come while having sex with him, and more times than not, it isn’t intentional on his part.
My pleasure was merely an offshoot of his climax. And forget about having an orgasm that scrambles my brains.
Yeah, all fictional.
My hand dives into my large pool bag and fumbles for the key card that I need to use to select the top floor. A hairbrush, sunglasses, sunscreen, an Elizabeth O’Roark book—now there’s a devilish hero I wish were real—lip gloss, a T-shirt, and hair tie. Where is the key card?
Why did I grab this bag instead of my still semi-packed suitcase or my purse?
Because I wasn’t thinking straight.
Monty was only a minute or so behind me, and I didn’t want to talk to him. I couldn’t talk to him. The tears wouldn’t stop, and although they weren’t over him, I didn’t want him to see me like that.
I was crying for me, for my stupidity, for wasting most of my youth on him. I’m still young, but those carefree days of high school were all spent with him. And what for? So I could wind up at a fancy hotel soon to be homeless and penniless?
Bastard.
Finally, I find the smooth cardboard sleeve with the key card tucked inside. The elevator doors open on the top floor of the hotel, and if I were in a better frame of mind, I’d be squealing at this kind of luxury.
All of this kind of life is so far removed from what I’m used to and the way I grew up. Who knew a girl from a small town in the Florida Keys would end up here? Staying in the presidential suite, no less.
Monty’s goofy grin and honey-colored eyes flash before me. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m here because of him. I should be livid, wishing I were working my ass off in some part-time job while attending community college. At least then, I’d be working on my future, on me.
But I’m grateful despite everything else.
Without him, I wouldn’t have left home, seen parts of this country I’d only ever read about.
No matter the chaos I’m in now, or how far beyond repair our relationship is, getting out of Marathon is something I appreciate, and while small, it helps me make peace with everything.
Outside the presidential suite, I tap the key card and a green light flashes. I open the door and step into a foyer. The lights are off, and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust.
A glow from the next room provides enough illumination for me to take in the sleek wood and marble surfaces as well as the powder room to one side. From there, I amble into the living and dining area, with a hallway to my right.
Three floor-to-ceiling windows run across one wall and with the curtains open, Houston’s city lights spill into the room. Directly in front of me are two large statues. One looks like a pony and the other is some kind of plant or small tree, and adjacent to that is a bookshelf.
The living room boasts a long, deep-cushioned sectional with a leather ottoman-type extension that perches in front of a gas fireplace. A modern, multilayered glass coffee table and two tub chairs complete the look.
Across from the furniture, running the length of that wall, is the biggest flat-screen TV I’ve ever seen, and at the far end of the room sits a modern, expensive-looking dining table for eight.
There’s even a piano. It may be a grand though I wouldn’t know. Opposite the piano is a kitchen and an open-concept office with another, albeit more modest, flat-screen TV.
Holy cow. The suite is gigantic, and I haven’t even seen half of it, I’m sure.
I spin on my heel and head down the hallway to where I’m guessing the bedroom must be. At the end, on my left, I spy a room with a treadmill, elliptical, and stationary bike. Wow.
I turn in the opposite direction, since I’m not exercising, and pass a closet bigger than my childhood bedroom. Across the hall is another room, and I blink at the blinding bright lights when I flick them on.
It’s the bathroom though calling it that feels wrong.
This is more a mini spa than anything else.
Again, every surface is marble or glass, and everything is top of the line.
There are double sinks, a private sauna, an all-glass shower in the middle of the room, and a freestanding bathtub so long and deep I could easily sleep in it.
Maybe I will since I can’t find the bed.
I need a shower, if only to wash off the filth and depravity of tonight. Out of habit, I close the bathroom door, then drop my bag onto the floor and strip. On the countertop, there’s a small tube of toothpaste and a disposable toothbrush in plastic wrap, both provided by the hotel.
Sweet. Thank you very much.
I brush my teeth and finger comb some of the knots out of my hair but quickly give up. I hope I can tame the medusa look under the water. If I have to use loads of conditioner, so be it.
The shower is heavenly, and it almost makes up for the fact that I have no clean underwear or anything but my dress to wear. Screw it. I’ll sleep naked and deal with my clothing situation in the morning.
Monty always tried to get me to come to bed naked, but for some reason, I never could with him. I wasn’t comfortable though I could never say why.
With my hair wrapped in a towel and my body cocooned in one of the hotel’s plush white robes, I stroll toward the workout room. The bedroom has to be that way.
Sure enough, there’s a door slightly ajar inside the exercise room. I gently push it open and can make out a bed. It’s much darker in here, dungeon-like with not a peep of light slicing through the drawn curtains.
Now I wish I hadn’t left my phone along with everything else in the bathroom.
I could really use something to light my way.
Carefully, I shuffle into the room and my feet soon hit carpet right before my hand reaches out and touches a mattress.
I shove off my robe, letting it pool at my feet, and slide under the cool, soft blankets. Ah, yes.
My head hits the pillow and I release a long, contented sigh. At the same time, the mattress ripples and there’s rustling on the other side of the bed. Oh my God, what’s happening?
I slowly turn in the direction of the noise and movement. Something clatters to the floor and a bedside lamp flicks on.
A dark, riotous stare drills into me. “What the fuck?”
A very muscled, familiar, and definitely pissed-off man springs from the bed. I’m both alarmed and speechless.
He has inky black hair, wavy and mussed from sleep, dark fiery eyes, and there’s no missing the way his skin tightens over his flexing jaw. He’s shocked, maybe even enraged.
And his body. Like slabs of granite, solid and smooth, I’m consumed by the chiseled muscles of his bare chest. He has those muscles on the sides of his hips. What are they called again?
The sinful twin ridges of his…Adonis belt, that’s it. The infamously mouthwatering V some guys have.
My gaze shamelessly trails the muscles as they disappear into his low slung boxers. Not stopping to daydream about what’s underneath all that cotton, my eyes drift lower and land on his thighs.
Another thing of wonder. They are the most sinewy and cut thighs I’ve ever seen. Hard, chiseled, and lean like super-sized bricks.
The man growls and curls one of his hands into a fist, and my eyes flash up to his. Suddenly, reality sinks in. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and my fingers clutch the bedsheet to my chest.
I’m naked, and this isn’t just any man.
Holy shit.
It’s Roman Kingsley.
“Who the fuck are you? And what are you doing in my room?” Never taking his eyes off me, he bends to pick up whatever fell on the floor. His phone. He holds it like a weapon and bellows, “Answer me.”
“Sorry, um, this is my room. The front desk gave me a key.” I spin to look around and suddenly remember everything I own is scattered across the bathroom.
“Bullshit. I don’t know who the fuck you are or what fucking game you’re playing, but I’m calling hotel security. I’m not your husband, and we aren’t fated to be together. I’m also calling the cops.” He lunges for the bed before I have a chance to react and whips back the covers. “Get out.”
I scream and jump off the mattress, hands and arms trying to hide my breasts and between my legs. Nothing about him softens as I scramble for the robe on the floor, trembling as I firmly tie the sash around my waist.
Only then do I let go of the breath I was holding. His odd words slide into place, suddenly making sense. He thinks I’m a stalker.
He glowers, nostrils flaring, as he dials what I’m guessing is the front desk.
My arms wildly gesture as if that will somehow convince him of my innocence. “Look, I don’t know what happened, but I’m not crazy. I’m not some psycho fan.”
He pauses in dialing to eye me skeptically. “But you know who I am.”
It isn’t a question. He says it in a way that somehow proves he’s right about me. I’m dangerous and snuck into his room to see him.
My arms flap like a pelican taking off for flight. “I didn’t even know you were in the hotel.” The towel tumbles from my head.
Thwack. The damp cloth smacks onto the wooden floor, he jolts, and my wet hair slaps my face, some sticking to my eyelashes.
My fingers claw at the strands to clear my sight. I gawk at him as he puts the phone to his ear.
“This is Roman Kingsley. There’s a situation. I need hotel security and for you to call the police. Now.”