Discretion
. . .
Ellie
Life as a professional cuddler wasn’t always glamorous.
Sure, the money was nice. If I weren’t drowning in credit card debt with a cat who racked up vet bills, I’d even be making a decent living.
And my Cuddler profile on the app had a sparkly gold crown icon after I was voted Cuddler-of-the-Month five months in a row—which I was ridiculously proud of.
Not to mention, cuddling was awesome.
But plenty of logistics made working an app-based gig tricky. Scheduling. Transportation. Growing your client base. Security concerns.
And dealing with doormen who strived to see you fail.
It didn’t help that some clients treated the Sunshine Cuddle Services app like a dating service.
Others thought we were a thinly veiled front for sex workers—and, boy, were they disappointed when my clothes stayed on.
Luckily, my boss had systems in place to weed out any shady characters looking to abuse the app—including murderers.
Most days, those systems kept us cuddlers safe from any harm.
Today wasn’t one of those days.
I needed to reevaluate my strategy.
Physically getting past Hughes hadn’t worked. All I had to show for it was a sore nose after running into that stone-faced man’s solid arm.
Bribery had failed me, too.
I was running out of options.
… Maybe a distraction would work?
I eyed the gold trim on the fancy glass doors Hughes guarded. “Is that real gold?”
He didn’t even pretend to look. “Miss, I must ask you again to leave. We don’t allow loitering at the entrance.”
“I’m not loitering.” My grip on my duffle bag tightened, and I huffed. “I’m just trying to enter.”
Hughes let an older couple inside with a pleasant smile, which dropped when he turned back to me. “Have you gotten ahold of your client yet?”
I pulled my phone out of my duffle for the twentieth time, but the only notification was for an upcoming yarn sale at my favorite craft supplies store. Nothing from the Sunshine Cuddle Services app.
My lips twisted. Clients were rarely responsive unless they needed something. “He’s not answering.”
Hughes held up a finger to silence me, before touching the same finger to his ear. “I’ve got it under control. No need to involve Frank.”
My pulse stuttered. “Who are you talking to? And who’s Frank?”
The doorman ignored me, instead focusing on whatever the voice in his ear said, until he flicked another glance at me. “She says her name is Ellie Darling and that she has an urgent appointment inside.”
I scanned the area for any sign of cameras under the awning. Was someone spying on us?
After a pause, Hughes frowned. “You’re sure?”
His displeasure gave me a glimmer of hope, especially when he grumbled under his breath and said, “I’ll let her know.”
Hughes dropped his arm, sniffing delicately before addressing me. “In light of the scene you’re causing, I’ve been instructed to direct you to the front desk to resolve this matter more discreetly.”
I didn’t think I was causing a scene, but I was too grateful to care. “Really? I get to go inside?”
Some of the light drained from his eyes. “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Of course, of course. Thank you so much, Hughes!” I beamed at him. “My friend is a baker, and she’s got a Christmas cookie box with your name on it!”
I paused as soon as the words left my mouth. “… That’s not bribery, is it?”
He only shook his head, opening the door with practiced grace, and I hurried inside before he could change his mind.
Two steps inside the lobby, my jaw promptly dropped. Opulent was the only word to describe the place. Grand marble floors, a three-story ceiling, and a giant gleaming chandelier I could swear I’d seen in more than one heist movie.
A subtle floral scent tickled my nose—pleasant instead of overpowering—and a glance around the room showed dozens of fancy vases housing real bouquets.
Just how big was this place’s flower budget?
“Miss?” A guy around my age, midtwenties, waved from behind an impressive marble reception desk that stretched along one wall. He smiled that same pleasant smile Hughes had mastered and beckoned me over. “I can assist you over here.”
I straightened my dress and patted down my windblown hair before marching over to the desk with determination in every step.
“Hi there.” I gave the worker my best smile and glanced at his shiny gold name tag. “Preston, I’ll be honest with you. It’s been a bit of a rough day. I’m running late for a very important meeting, so if you could please summon one of those fancy elevators for me, I would be eternally grateful.”
He pulled a small dark tablet from underneath the desk. “And who is your very important meeting with?”
My smile faltered. “Well, my client is confidential, but I’m supposed to meet them on Level P.”
Preston’s finger froze on the screen, and his gaze snapped up to me. “Your client is Cade Westbrook?”
I froze, wide-eyed. How did he… ?
Determined to play it cool and protect my client’s privacy, I cleared my throat. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s the only one who lives on the penthouse floor.” Preston cocked an all too condescending eyebrow. “Level P.”
Oh.
Well, so much for discretion.
“Penthouse?” I echoed softly, my eyebrows creeping up. This Westbrook guy must be a big deal.
“Unfortunately, you aren’t on his approved list of visitors, and I’m unable to confirm any changes with him at this time.” Preston tapped a few times at his tablet. “Mr. Westbrook doesn’t like to be bothered.”
I tried again. “It wouldn’t be a bother, though. It was a last-minute booking—literally just hours ago—but he’s expecting me.”
That well-practiced, pleasant smile made a return. “I’m sure he is. However, I must ask you to leave and come back once we can confirm your appointment.”
Yeah, this was not ideal at all.
Hoping he couldn’t smell the desperation radiating off me, I leaned against the imposing desk and kept my voice low.
“I understand you’re just doing your job, Preston.
But so am I, and I already told Hughes out there that my client hasn’t cancelled, so I need to show up to get paid.
” Swallowing my meager pride, I lowered my voice further.
“I’m the only provider for my family, and our financial situation isn’t what you’d call ideal. I can’t afford to lose a booking.”
He didn’t need to know that my family only consisted of me and my cat—a partially blind furball who was more trouble than he was worth.
“Unfortunately, sob stories won’t change the rules.” Preston copied my stage whisper, before straightening. “Now, are you willing to leave the premises on your own, or would you like security to assist you?”
He glanced to his left, and I followed his gaze to a looming muscular man watching us from the corner. A shiny badge on his chest reflected light from the chandelier.
I gulped. “Could—Could you please just let me go up to the penthouse and talk to Mr. Westbrook myself? Please, Preston. He’ll call down and tell you he’s expecting me.”
“Oh, will he?” Preston’s smile tightened. “It was a nice attempt, but I’m afraid you’re not the first admirer to try this tactic for a chance to meet Mr. Westbrook.”
… Admirer?
I stared for a beat, waiting for my brain to catch up. “I’m not a stalker, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“That’s what they all say before security escorts them out.” He looked off to the side. “Frank?”
“Wait!” Frank was the last thing I needed.
I couldn’t lose this gig. I’d already spent a good chunk of the day getting to this private luxury building and fighting my way in, and Whiskey needed this money.
Taking a deep breath, I gave it one more shot.
“Please call Mr. Westbrook. If he doesn’t confirm we have an appointment today, then I’ll leave. I promise.”
Preston’s flat stare told me he didn’t believe me for a second, but when he sighed, I knew I’d worn him down.
“One moment, please,” he murmured. He put a sleek black phone to his ear, and my hope soared when he cleared his throat just moments later. “Mac, I’ve got a woman down in the lobby claiming she has an appointment with Mr. Westbrook.”
I leaned closer, but I couldn’t make out any of the muffled response.
“Tell him the booking is nonrefundable!” I whisper-shouted.
That earned an unamused side-eye.
“He heard you,” Preston said dryly, before focusing on me. “Which company are you with?”
I glanced around. It didn’t look like anyone else was close enough to eavesdrop, but I still needed to play it safe. “Our initials are S.C.S.”
Some discretion could still be salvaged.
Preston only cocked an eyebrow.
“She says she’s with S.C.S,” he relayed. Whatever Mac said back made the receptionist’s eyes narrow at me. “Steve’s Cleaning Services?”
I paused.
… Huh?
But it quickly dawned on me. My client was getting creative with our initials to keep the appointment discreet.
Clever boy.
I beamed at Preston. “Yep, that’s me. Steve’s best cleaner, five months in a row.”
Preston’s lips pursed before he passed on the information—conveniently leaving out my award.
After a long, loaded pause, Preston covered the mouthpiece and addressed me again—almost reluctantly. “Apparently Mr. Westbrook is expecting you, but you’re early.”
I checked my kitty-cat watch. “By three minutes? He booked me for two thirty.”
Preston frowned and angled himself away. “There seems to be some confusion with the booking time. She was told two thirty. Should I send her up or have her wait in the back room until the appropriate time?”
The longest five seconds of my life passed in an eerie silence.
“Understood, sir.” Preston hung up, and my hope surged. This was it. He glanced longingly at Frank—like he was still debating kicking me out—before meeting my gaze. “Mr. Westbrook’s security approved for you to go up now.”
Relief weakened my knees.
“You’re a lifesaver, Preston!” I held on to the desk for support, smile straining my cheeks. “Thank you. Seriously. If my cat ever has kittens, I’m naming one after you.”
Whiskey was a tomcat who could no longer sire children, but it was the thought that counted.
Preston’s frown showed he had no idea how big of an honor that was.
“Next time, use the service entrance in the back of the building and come at your assigned time,” he said. “Your company should’ve received a badge for you to use for entry and identification. It avoids misunderstandings like this.”
I tended not to take repeat appointments from clients as nonresponsive as this one, but Preston didn’t need to know that. “I’ll follow up with my boss on that badge. Promise.”
“You do that. Samuel will ‘summon’ a lift for you now,” Preston said dryly, and I didn’t even care that he was making fun of me.
“Thank you!” Overcome with gratitude, I ran to the elevators while blowing a couple kisses over my shoulder to the front desk.
Three shiny elevators awaited me at the opposite end of the lobby, but an older teenager in a crisp red bellhop’s uniform—round brimless hat and all—waved me over to the corner.
Marching down his chest, a column of brass buttons completed his look, gleaming so brightly I was tempted to ask if he polished each one individually.
He led me to an elevator hidden away from the rest.
Private.
My eyebrows crept higher with each new display of luxury.
“Very fancy,” I murmured appreciatively just as the doors slid open. “Thank you so much.”
The elevator attendant dipped his chin before following me inside.
“Oh, you’re riding up with me?” I scooted over to make room. “Cool. I’m Ellie, by the way. Ellie Darling.”
He grinned, showing off a dimple as deep as a crater. “Samuel. Welcome to the Nightingale, Miss Darling.”
He pressed a button labeled P and tapped a fancy black card against the reader, earning a soft beep before the huge brass doors shut.
Mr. Westbrook was definitely in a different tax bracket than my usual clients.
A shaky breath escaped me, and I finally relaxed my grip on the duffle bag strap as the elevator rose.
At least the hard part was over, and now I’d get to spend the rest of the afternoon doing one of my favorite things.
Cuddling.