Chapter 6
Recent transactions:
The yawning automatic doors slide open as we drag our suitcases across the mezzanine, past the row of well-dressed drivers
with names on whiteboards like penguins in a police lineup, out onto Rome airport’s uneven arrivals exit tarmac. My head is
pounding due to the three crying babies scattered so perfectly throughout the cabin no seat was untouched by the bloodcurdling
screams. The only in-flight entertainment came when everyone turned on the man who shouted, “Will you shut that kid up?” to
his nearest baby. The camaraderie was frankly heartwarming.
Originally, we had time to get to the conference hotel, check in, unpack, prepare all the materials, go over the presentation plan, get zhuzhed, then leisurely head down to the welcome drinks hosted in one of the hotel’s event rooms. Instead, due to a three-hour weather delay, we are running to the shuttle bus in the rain.
We step around puddles and past the line of tired-faced passengers waiting for taxis and head toward a sign with giant red letters spelling Bus navetta.
“Come on.” Spencer waves at me as the long bendy bus covered in images of the statue of David and the Trevi Fountain creaks around the corner of a dilapidated public toilet, sighing to a stop. “The next one is in an
hour.”
Following the flow, I run toward the double doors. Tensing my arms to lift my suitcases—one full of clothes, one full of marketing
materials—I slam them onto the bus’s black terrazzo floor and squeeze in between an old Italian woman wearing a red babushka
headscarf and a couple with matching chestnut hair shouting at each other in Italian.
The bus vibrates to life, and we lurch forward with a long high-pitched moan, the entire crowd of standing bus passengers
rocking back and forth in unison like a jar of dill pickles.
After an hour of winding roads, horns beeping, and road rage, we arrive at the hotel. The raw-edged wood and chrome beams
give the hotel a distinctly masculine vibe that makes me immediately shrink as I step foot into the wide lobby. Leather chesterfield
sofas and armchairs are littered around like burned marshmallows.
Spencer examines the lobby before turning to me. “I thought it would be busier than this.”
“We must be early; the actual TechRumble competition doesn’t officially start until tomorrow, but it’s some obligatory welcome
drinks thing tonight.”
He fixes me with a look. “I imagine all the important people have better things to do than be here this early.”
My back straightens in defense. “The rooms are expensive! I wanted to get my money’s worth.”
He sighs. “I think I’ll go to the spa; it’s been a long day.”
I slip Spencer the Wyst company credit card. “You’ll need this to check us in.” Thankfully, it doesn’t have my name on it.
When I booked our rooms, I decided to use my conference alias, Violet Leigh, to book mine.
“Here’s your key card, Mr. Cole. The executive suite gym and spa facilities are on the basement floor; you’ll need your key
card to access those. Complimentary breakfast is served on floor one between six and nine. Oh, and here is your TechRumble
literature and complimentary drink tickets.” The pretty receptionist smiles, handing a matte black key card in a decorative
cardboard case and a TechRumble-branded folder to Spencer as a man dressed in a three-piece suit offers to take his bag.
“And yours.” A considerably less pretty smile is afforded to me as she passes over a white shiny key card.
She types something on her computer before looking up once more. “We just need to see your passports please, to have on file.”
A basketball-size knot forms in my stomach as I attempt to school my face into neutrality, faking looking through my handbag
to kill some time. The last thing we need is someone questioning my identity the night before the competition even starts.
Next to me, Spencer hands his over without a second thought.
I let out a nervous laugh of an inexperienced assistant. “I think mine is at the bottom of my suitcase. Can I bring it later?”
“Ummmm.” The receptionist looks at the man behind her, with a demeanor that suggests “manager.” Spencer glances at me, cottoning
on to my dilemma.
He shifts his demeanor into CEO mode, faking a loud laugh and adopting an accent considerably posher than his own. “I can certainly vouch for my own assistant’s identity; don’t you worry!”
After receiving a nod from her manager, the receptionist gives us a tight-lipped smile. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you,” we both reply in unison. I quickly thank the genetic gods that Spencer and I don’t look that similar, because
we just sounded identical.
The receptionist gestures her palm out to a nearby teenager in a red blazer. “Our bellhop will bring your bags up to your
room.”
“Great, thank you so much,” I reply with a relieved sigh. Once we’re in our rooms we’ll be safe.
She smiles again, this time with teeth. “Oh, I’m sorry, a complimentary bellhop is just part of the suite package. Your suitcases
are over there.” She points a long finger at my two suitcases stacked in the far corner of the lobby.
Spencer holds in a laugh as he slides his passport back into his jacket pocket.
The receptionist nods her head at Spencer. “Enjoy your suite, Mr. Cole.”
“I’m sure I will,” he replies, as I drag my suitcases toward the elevators, one handle in each fist.
As we walk, Spencer flicks through the bright green TechRumble folder until he stops at the judging panel page. “Whoa, is
this the Big Kahuna?”
I glance to the side, seeing an image of a man who is known as the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. “Yeah, that’s Dominic
Odericco. He took over Odericco Investments from his father five years ago and introduced the whole concept of TechRumble
the year after.”
“He looks like that guy Regé-Jean Page,” he says, examining Odericco’s strong jaw and sharp cheekbones. “I did not think tech nerds could be this hot.” Spencer’s voice bounces off the walls as we make it to the elevators.
I look around to see if anyone overheard before bringing my voice down to a whisper. “Can you keep it in your pants please;
we are here to be serious business people.”
“Don’t worry, I am very serious about that bod.” Spencer has already googled Dominic Odericco and is clicking through long-lens paparazzi photos
of him half naked, drinking martinis on a yacht with a small gaggle of models. His toned golden-brown chest with a smattering
of dark hair glinting in the sunlight.
“Oh my god.” I throw my hand over his phone screen as a pack of men in suits walk by.
Spencer laughs and clicks the button for his special little elevator with swirling gilded doors reserved for the top three
floors of the hotel.
As it dings open, he shouts, “See you, cheapskate.”
I glare at him, running a hand over my face and slinging my handbag over my suitcase before pulling both my bags toward the
normie elevator. The much less exciting silver doors immediately start to slide open. All I want to do right now is shower
and chill out in a king-sized bed.
Before I’ve even stepped a foot into the elevator, my eyes scrunch shut as a large body barrels into me like a freight train.
A freight train grasping a cardboard holder of coffees, which promptly lose their flimsy lids and release their contents all over me.
Like a targeted tag team assault, the iced coffee with whipped cream splashes over my face and hair while the matcha latte hits me directly in the chest. The two cappuccinos fall out of the holder and explode in every direction as they slam into the ground with a wet thwack.
“Shit!” a disembodied voice shouts.
“Fuck!” I wipe my blurry eyes and stumble backward, immediately feeling the lobby go upside down as I trip over one of my
bags. As I fall, I grab blindly at the nearest object to try and save myself, but all I do is pull the shirt of whoever slammed
into me over the top of the other suitcase until they are on the ground next to me.
Everything scatters across the lobby—my phone, key card, coffee cups, the entire contents of my handbag, and the other person’s
over-ear headphones.
As the assailant and I peel ourselves from the floor, our eyes finally meet. Mine squinting through the coffee, his wide form
just hitting the floor at full speed. His biceps flex under his white shirt as he pushes himself off the floor, sitting upright
with his hands on his wet thighs. His eyebrows meet as he stares at the crowd around us slowing their pace to gape. To be
fair, I would also stop and stare at the brown and green explosion staining the perfect marble floors.
His hazel eyes scan the scene once more before flicking up to me. “Are you kidding me?” he says in an American accent.
“Am I kidding you?” I say, completely bewildered at his tone. “I’m not the one who just launched themselves into another human being without
looking where they were going.” I glance around too. Great, just half the people in the lobby are looking at us now, but my
heart is still pounding. Several members of the janitorial staff are already cordoning off the area so other patrons don’t
step in the mess surrounding us and quarantining our embarrassment.
Gathering up the contents of my handbag, I take no real notice of the man next to me until he shakes his head in bafflement. “You know, it’s common courtesy to let other people out of an elevator before you and your twenty bags enter. I thought the British were meant to be polite?” The front
of his chestnut hair flops forward as he assesses where the coffee hit him. He wasn’t originally in the splash zone, but his
fall landed him face-first right where the two cappuccinos exploded. His jaw tightens as he winces and stands, then offers
me a hand up.
Does this guy think because he has a face like that, he can just ram through life however he pleases? I don’t take the offered