Chapter 31
Ava
“Travis will take you to where you’ll be staying,” Harrison says, scrolling his phone with one hand, inhaling a Starbucks breakfast sandwich with the other.
Manhattan traffic crawls as I stare out the window and sip my cappuccino. “Is Travis kidnapping me? Because unless he is, I’m staying at The Barrington.”
Travis’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. To me, then Harrison. Then straight back to the road, like he wants no part of this.
Before I can fire back, he adds, “Don’t make me call your brother.”
I scoff. “You’re calling my brother on me? What are you, eight?”
“No,” he says coolly. “I’m definitely the grown-up, Miss triple-shot oat milk cappuccino with one pump of vanilla, one pump brown sugar, extra dry, and dusted with cinnamon.”
I bristle. “You asked what I wanted.”
“I didn’t expect to need a notebook and a pen.”
I glare at him as he chews, my eyes suddenly glued to his sandwich. Dammit. Why did I turn it down?
Maybe because Myra has mentioned my weight three times in the past week. Casually. Like she’s doing me a favor.
Harrison’s expression shifts, the sharpness easing into something softer. Then he holds the sandwich out to me.
“You need to eat something.”
“No, I don’t,” I say automatically.
But it’s half a fresh grilled sandwich.
And… mmm, bacon. My brain completely shuts down.
I never eat breakfast. Ever.
But when Lumberjack lifts it to my lips, my resolve folds like a paper airplane. The bacon is crispy and salty, the egg soft, the cheese melted just right. It’s so—
I close my eyes and moan.
When I open them, both Harrison and Travis are staring.
What? I’m just a girl having a meaningful moment with a breakfast sandwich. Please don’t judge.
Harrison reaches out, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “You’ve got something there.”
“Do I?” I ask. “Because I’m fairly certain I inhaled every crumb. Like a walrus. Just unhinged my jaw and swallowed.”
His brows shoot up, and I suddenly find the view out the window fascinating.
We make a right, and Travis pulls over at the corner. I look up.
The building is a tower of glass and steel, a skyscraper climbing so high it nearly disappears into the clouds.
Bold letters stretch across the front. I recognize the name.
Donovan Excelsior.
Harrison is already getting out of the car.
I don’t bother removing my seat belt. “This isn’t a hotel. This is where Gabe works.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And it’s where I work, too.” He dusts off his jeans, and it hits me how out of place he looks here.
A flannel duck who is very, very out of water.
His voice stays infuriatingly calm. “Travis will take you to where you’ll be staying. There’s a concierge there who can handle whatever you need, assuming you don’t ask for anything ridiculous.”
“Define ridiculous,” I say, hating that this feels like goodbye. “Because my baseline includes mood lighting, green juice, and a half-naked bath butler. A hot one.”
His mouth twitches. “You’ll survive. And tell no one where you are.”
“That’s generous, considering I never agreed to any of this. So maybe there’s nothing to tell.”
He turns, already done with this conversation. “I’ve got Gabe’s number on speed dial,” he warns.
He lifts his phone and gives it a little wave as he and those glorious jeans walk off.
Butthead.
* * *
Travis opens the door, and the moment I step out of the car, it clicks.
Oh.
I know this place. I’ve had sex in this place.
With Harrison.
I squint up at the building, anger blooming fast. Mostly at myself.
Of course, Harrison would bring me back here.
740 Park Avenue
They might as well call it Casual Sex Central and save everyone the confusion.
Ugh.
It’s the same place I had to be out of by noon. Not that I would’ve stayed that long.
I rushed out the door for donuts.
For him.
I roll my eyes. Hard.
In the bright light of morning, though, it doesn’t look like a hotel.
No one flagging cabs. No valet. No people drifting in and out with rolling suitcases.
Just quiet glass and stone and a doorman who looks like a side-by-side refrigerator dressed for a funeral. Dark glasses. Neck tattoo. Zero warmth.
Before I can back away slowly and climb back into the car, Travis clicks the fob. The horn beeps twice, and he’s already wheeling my luggage toward the entrance.
Neck Tattoo holds the door open for him and Travis disappears inside.
The door stays open.
For me.
Is he carrying a gun?
He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there like a stone bulldozer, waiting for me to step inside.
Whatever protest I had fizzles out like carbonation from day-old champagne.
I murmur a thank-you and step inside.
The lobby is immaculate and empty and… wrong.
No guests milling around. No ambient music. No strategically placed plants to give it that friendly, lived-in look.
Just marble floors and expensive chandeliers and the unsettled feeling that this might be a hotel.
In a Stephen King novel.
The concierge looks up the second I approach.
“Ah, yes. Miss Alvarez. We’ve been expecting you.”
If this man is a concierge, then I’m a professional tightrope walker.
I register the suit first. Crisp. Italian. Brioni, if I had to bet.
Then the posture. Military straight, muscles straining the fabric like it’s holding on for dear life.
And then there’s the unmistakable bulge of a gun.
Cool.
I really don’t love that this man knows my real name.
Before I can back away slowly and pretend I left something very important in the car, Travis breezes past, bags in tow.
And considering I’ve already been through hell and back again, suffice it to say, I need my stuff.
Especially my phone.
Which is in my backpack.
The concierge slides a key across the desk. “Eighth floor.”
I take it slowly. “What room on the eighth floor?”
He smiles, polite and unbothered. “Your suite is the entire eighth floor.”
Oh?
A thousand questions fire off in my head, all tripping over each other, but Travis is already at the elevator, holding the door.
I don’t want to keep him waiting. He’s been incredibly nice.
I take the key and step inside.
He presses the button, and the doors slide shut.
He hesitates for a moment before speaking, “It’s really important that nobody knows you’re here.”
There’s something in his voice. A subtle shift I’ve learned to hear on set. Controlled concern. The kind that means this matters.
And that he’s stepping out of bounds to say it.
I nod. “I won’t tell anyone.”
The elevator opens, and we step into the suite. Travis heads down the hall. “I’ll put your bags in the biggest bedroom.”
“The biggest bedroom,” I repeat. “How many are there?”
He chuckles. “You’ll have fun finding out.”
The space unfolds exactly the way I remember it. Same scale. Same layout. The difference hits immediately, though.
The place Harrison brought me to was all sharp lines and alpha-male restraint. Dark wood. Minimal furniture. A utilitarian space where nothing existed unless it served a purpose.
This one is… softer.
Lighter.
Cream-toned walls. Plush textures. Furniture that looks chosen, not issued. The sharp edges are replaced by warmth and intention.
And then there are the flowers.
Not the kind hotels use to manufacture an Instagram moment. No towering vases of imported French roses screaming look at me, I’m expensive.
This isn’t a wow factor.
It’s intimate.
Wildflowers, loosely arranged, are scattered throughout the space like someone couldn’t decide where they belonged and decided the answer was everywhere.
Delicate stems. Soft colors. And threaded through them, bright and unmistakable…
Marigolds.
My favorites.
I stop short.
They look almost hand-picked. Like someone wandered through a field and gathered what caught their eye. Except it’s the dead of winter, and Central Park is definitely not offering up wildflowers right now.
My chest squeezes. This has Harrison’s fingerprints all over it.
But that’s impossible. He’s been with me all morning.
When did he say he set this up?
Travis reappears and gestures toward the open space. “Fully stocked fridge. Pantry too.” He points down the hall. “Small gym up here. Bigger one downstairs has a pool. And if you need anything at all, dial zero. The concierge can take care of whatever you need.”
What if I need a big, strapping lumberjack?
I brush the ruffles of a marigold. “Is Harrison coming back?”
He’s already heading for the door, replying like it’s a question he’s answered a thousand times before.
“Anything’s possible.”
He winks, closes the door, and leaves me alone with the flowers.
I tuck the biggest marigold behind my ear and start counting bedrooms.