Chapter 2 Christopher #2
“Which room are you staying in?” the big guy asks, deadpan.
“What’s it to you?” I retort.
God, these fucking Americans.
My difficult people quota for the day has not only already been met, but exceeded.
“Which room?!”
I tense at his domineering tone.
After a couple of awkward seconds, I reach for the room key in my pocket. The bigger security guard lurches forward, reaching for my arm, stopping just as I pull out the card holder. I open the flap to reveal the number and wave it in his face.
“Room 506. Now, which room are you in?” I puff my chest outward.
I’m not going to cower like I used to when confronted by an intimidating man.
Another chuckle comes from the only person in the lift I still can’t make out.
“Not everyone is a threat, Rob. Leave the man be,” says the American voice again.
When the lift doors eventually close and the security guard steps aside, I finally see the reason for all the commotion. A strikingly handsome guy, a couple inches shorter than me, stands diagonally opposite in the lift, with eyes so ocean blue they could wash me away.
A handful of sun-kissed golden locks are interwoven through his light-brown hair, which is styled perfectly, sliding backward.
A few stray hairs linger just by his left eye.
For a shorter guy, he’s built like a Greek Adonis.
A tight-fitted white T-shirt accentuates his tan and showcases a rippling six—or is that an eight? —pack.
I inhale deeply, realizing that the sight of him momentarily took my breath away, and move my gaze to the framed picture next to him when I catch myself staring a split second too long and his eyes meet mine. I’m relieved when the blond-haired woman cuts through the silence.
“It looks like the outfit malfunction has gone down rather well online. Alexander’s big reveal seems to be trending across all the social platforms.” She raises one hand to air quote “big reveal,” and then continues to scroll through the phone without looking up.
I laugh inwardly to myself. What a world to live in where the only issue of the day seems to be a wardrobe malfunction.
“What’s so funny?” The hot guy’s ocean-blue eyes catch mine.
I feel like a deer in the headlights.
Shit.
Did I just laugh out loud?
My mouth gets me into so much trouble sometimes. But I’m not going to pander to this guy either, even if he is hot as hell. Especially after the day I’ve just had.
“Here you all are complaining about an outfit malfunction, and I literally only have the clothes on my back after my luggage got lost today. The woman upstairs is clearly having a laugh at my expense.” I shoot my gaze upward to the ceiling.
“What woman?” The confused look on his face is both endearing and compounds my frustration at how Americans so often take things literally.
“God,” I say, pursing my lips. That seems to make a smile break out on his face, and I reluctantly force the right side of my mouth to rise.
“Well, seems like we’re both having shitty days then.”
I ponder momentarily, debating how to respond. Sarcastically, sympathetically, or any of the other –allys? But before I do the lift stops. Both women exit.
“See y’all in the morning.” They wave, and the doors close behind them as we continue up.
The bald-headed guy with glasses, who up until this point has only uttered one word and has been typing furiously away on his phone, pipes up.
“I’ve emailed the day sheet alongside the one printed in your room for tomorrow.
Glam is at ten. Call time is eleven. The junket runs straight through till five.
Connie’s already briefed the journalists that tonight’s mishap is off topic so you’re not caught off guard.
” The way he punctuates each sentence gives the hot guy just enough time to nod his head.
As the lift reaches the fifth floor, I go to step out, but the burly security guard stops me, pushing me back to let the hot guy and the others out first.
“Nice to see chivalry is still alive and well,” I say, my foot-in-mouth disease catching me by surprise once again.
Sarcasm clearly doesn’t land well with either of the security guards or the bald guy in glasses. But another chuckle comes from the hot guy’s mouth, reassuring me, albeit briefly, that I’ll live to see another day and won’t feel the wrath of his security.
Making my way out of the lift behind them, I instantly see why Kelly and Daniel chose this as their wedding venue.
The decor is elegant but understated. Sconces adorn the cream-colored walls, held up by golden angel wings.
The royal blue carpets are framed by a Versace-style pattern on the perimeter.
I stop briefly at the gold plaque highlighting which directions the rooms are in, and my shoulders drop when I realize that my room is in the same direction they already are walking in. Great.
I count each room number as I pass—500, 502, 504—before I get to 506, and then notice that everyone else has stopped at the next room up from mine, at what I can just make out to be the Presidential Suite.
I retrieve the door key from my pocket and after running my finger over the smooth wooden texture, press it against the card reader.
But the key isn’t game. Despite several attempts, the door refuses to open.
My anger bubbles up as I slam the key against the reader, harder each time.
Why must all hotel doors be this difficult to open?
The three of them linger outside their room, staring at me, which doesn’t make it any easier.
“By all means, don’t let me stop you.” I motion with my hand to their door. I’m not here for their entertainment or amusement.
“Here, let me.”
The hot guy walks toward me, taking the key out of my hand as if I’m some damsel in distress. He gently slides it over the card reader, unlocking the door on his first attempt. Smugness comes over his face.
If he wasn’t so attractive, I would wipe that look right off it.
But my bed is now in sight, and that is all that truly matters.
“Thank you,” I say, opening the door wider, as he hands me back my door key. A surge of electricity races across my skin when his hand touches mine.
“I hope you get your suitcase back tomorrow. Did they say where it would be?”
His question stops me in my tracks as I enter the room, making me turn around.
“Still back home at LAX. Thank God I packed my gym gear,” I say, twisting my arm behind me to pat my backpack.
He pauses for a beat, catching my eye.
Now I see why all those girls are waiting outside the hotel.
Close-up, he is even more breathtaking.
“You’re from LA too?”
A sparkle in his eye shows me there is genuine interest, and I wonder, if only for a fleeting moment, if he might be interested in me, before reminding myself how stupid I sound.
The thought that this heartthrob, with hundreds of women outside screaming his name, could be into someone like me is ridiculous.
“Yeah, I moved there a couple of years back,” I say nonchalantly, before adding, “I hope you don’t have to deal with any more BIG reveals this week.”
I quickly close the door and slam my back against it, mortified at what I just said. Something sharp in my backpack causes a shooting pain to run through my spine.
What the fuck was I thinking?
Did I see a mischievous smile on his face as I shut the door? Or is my mind playing tricks on me again? I turn and peer through the peephole. He’s still standing there, shaking his head. The fish-eye lens makes his face and muscular frame more round.
After what seems like an hour, but is probably more like three seconds, I reach for the door handle. But just before I pull it down, he turns and walks away. The sound of his footsteps on the carpet get quieter before I hear the loud sound of a door shutting.
I let out a large exhale and lean forward, banging my forehead against the door.
What a dick move.
I take off my backpack, placing it on the table beside the television, next to the notepad and guest services folder.
Like all hotel rooms, the bed is tidily made, with two bedside tables on either side and lights that match those in the hallway.
The golden curtains are already drawn. I fling my sneakers off next to one of the two golden armchairs and remove my socks before reaching across to my backpack and retrieving the miniature toiletries bag British Airways gives out in business class.
It was the only redeeming quality of my nightmare travel journey.
Bag in hand, I make my way into the bathroom.
The coolness of the marble-tiled floor catches me by surprise.
But it’s not nearly as shocking as my reflection in the mirror.
God, I’ve seen better days. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think I was thirty-seven and not just turned twenty-seven.
The dark circles under my eyes are big enough to hold all my physical and emotional baggage and then some.
My disheveled, short brown hair, completely void of its usual right-side parting, looks like I’ve had one too many big nights on the town and am paying the price for it.
I quickly brush my teeth, cursing the overhead lighting as I do so, and strip down to my boxers. I leave my clothes scattered next to the bathtub and grab my phone before making my way to the bed.
The Egyptian cotton sheets caress my bare skin soothingly as I settle in, and I plump the pillows before turning my attention to my phone, ignoring messages from my sister and mum. Curiosity has gotten the better of me.
After firing up TikTok, I go to the search tab, but I struggle to recall the hot guy’s name.
Think, Christopher. Think.
As if on cue, I hear the faint chant beyond the curtains.
Alex. Alex. Alex.
That’s it.
I quickly type in Alex, London, and wardrobe malfunction.
When the results load up, I am greeted by hundreds of videos, all from different angles. Alex is catapulted into the air and lands on stage with his trousers hanging halfway down his legs.
I scroll through one video, then another, until I land on one that’s zoomed in close enough to reveal that he has quite the package. Clearly, the hashtag wasn’t lying.
I’m tempted to scroll further and find out more about this Alex guy, or is it Alexander?
But I’ve got a big day ahead tomorrow, and I need all the sleep I can get to face my mother.
I roll over to turn off the lamp and put down my phone, hoping that I can get a decent night’s sleep.
But clearly the day isn’t done playing with me just yet.
The squeals and louder chants of Alex! Alex! Alex! from behind the curtain get louder, as if the crowd below has been lifted up to right outside my room.
I pull one of the pillows over my head, attempting to drown out the sounds of the screaming girls below.
Please tell me they’ll all be gone by tomorrow.