Chapter 13
Ten minutes ago, he had me against a wall.
His hand was under my shirt, and his mouth was just below my earlobe. I was laughing into his collar, and now I'm pushing a cart down the fifth-floor service corridor at a pace that's going to give me away before any of the cameras above me do.
I need to slow down.
I check my reflection in the brass plate over the housekeeping panel. Roger sent me to the Sonoma suite and now I look a mess.
I fix my hair up, uniform on.
"Suze."
Carmen is at the end of the corridor with a stack of folded sheets up to her chin. She's come around the corner faster than I expected. She raises an eyebrow. "Where's the fire?"
"No fire. I just need to round up the laundry for the penthouse suite. You know how particular Mr. Nightingale is."
She tilts her head and studies me one beat too long. "I don't actually. I keep asking what the deal is with him, but you won’t tell me anything."
My heartbeat spikes. “Because there’s no deal. I told you — there’s nothing between us. He was just concerned.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t see him showing anyone else in this hotel any concern.” She squeezes my arm above the elbow and lets it go. "Don’t forget what I said."
I nod.
She turns the corner.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
That was close.
I cross the lobby to pick up fresh linens at the front desk. Carmen is on a phone call with a guest, and Frank is at the concierge stand with his hands flat on the wood and a small pile of room-service slips in front of him. He looks up when I pass.
He nods.
I nod back.
Roger is at the service desk with the clipboard.
He's not on the radio. He's not yelling. He's visibly working very hard at containing himself. His mouth is a thin line. His eyes track me from the supply closet to the linens shelf and back again, and he doesn't call me over. He doesn't say a word.
He's timing me.
I know it.
I don't speed up. I push the cart past him without hurry. I pretend I can't feel his eyes on me.
I pass him close enough that the cart wheel almost catches the leg of his desk. I don't apologize. I don't acknowledge him.
In the linen closet, I count to ten under my breath. The shaking in my hands is mostly in my left, which is the one I can hide.
I leave with the cart full.
I clock the cart into the service bay. I peel my gloves off and drop them in the bin. I take the back stairs to the penthouse floor, not the staff elevator, which Roger has eyes on, and not the guest elevator.
Eleven flights, and my calves complain. My hands are on the railing, and the stairwell smells like the mildew of a back-of-house space nobody has cleaned in two years, but I climb it anyway.
I count the floors out loud under my breath. Five. Six. Seven. He is up there. He is waiting for me. Eight. Nine.
I'm breathing hard at the door. I push it open.
The penthouse hallway is empty.
I cross it and swipe my card. The light goes green.
I open the door.
He's at the kitchen counter, in boxers and no shirt, holding a glass of water.
The lamp by the desk is on. The curtains are open at the windows behind him, the valley is soft and dark, with small lights of the vineyards strung out along the hillside.
He has a towel hung over one shoulder. His hair is wet at the ends, which means he's just come out of the shower.
Oh.
He looks up when the door clicks. The glass goes down on the counter without him looking at it. The towel slides off his shoulder, and he doesn't catch it. The next thing I'm aware of is being against the wall just inside the suite with his mouth on mine and the door closing itself behind me.
Neither of us says hello.
He kisses me like he's been thinking about it the whole day, and I kiss him back. His hands are at my hips, then at the buttons of my uniform, then at the soft hollow of my throat.
"Suzanne."
"Mmm…"
"Get this off."
"Bossy."
"Now."
I remove my uniform. Then his boxers.
We don't make it to bed the first time.
The second time, we do.
The third time, the lamp gets knocked off the nightstand, and we leave it on the floor.
At some point, we are calling each other's names into the dark, and the next instant, I'm against his chest with his hand in my hair and a single low lamp on across the room.
Then the world is narrowed to the warm flat of his ribs under my cheek and the slow drum of his heart under my ear.
He says my name.
"Suzanne."
"Mmm…"
"What do you want?"
"What?"
"What do you actually want? Not from me, but for your life."
I'm quiet.
Nobody has asked me this in years. Nobody has asked me in a way that was waiting for a real answer. Renée has tried, Carmen has tried, and both times I've said something quick that closed the door before they could push it.
He is not pushing.
He asks, then lets the question hang. The silence is louder than the words. He has all the time in the world. He won't fill it for me.
I don't say something quickly.
I look at the slow rise of his chest under my hand.
"I think you know the answer already. There's a small community art school in Santa Rosa. They take twenty students a year for the painting program. That’s what I want."
“How much is it?”
I shoot him a glare. "I don’t want you to pay for it."
“Why won’t you just let me do this for you? I’m here. I want to. Take advantage of me.”
“I’m not taking your money, Cade. Stop talking about this.”
“Fine. If you won’t take my money, then at least take my connections. I know people.”
"Cade."
"Hear me out. I can put you in front of someone who doesn’t work for me. You won’t owe me anything. Your work will do the talking on its own. The only thing I’ll do is find that person.”
"You'd still be helping me. If they take me on, it’ll be because of you. I want to do this on my own."
"All I’ll do is make the introduction. After that, you're on your own. You wouldn't be able to tell I had anything to do with it."
I'm quiet again.
He slowly moves his hand in my hair.
"Please." It's the first time I've heard him use the word. "Please listen to me. Let me help. Let me find the right person for you. Trust me to do that."
I don't answer.
I don't know if it's the right call.
Marguerite is in this. I know it before I let myself name it.
The whole reason I've been doing the math every Sunday for three years is so the school is mine, bought with my hand and earned with my back.
Marguerite wouldn't have wanted me walking into an art school I got into because a rich man knew a gallery owner.
But Marguerite would also have told me to take the help. She would have laughed at me for refusing it. She would have argued that pride comes after a meal, not before it.
I look at the soft place over his heart where my hand is.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"One person. One email. After that, I'm on my own."
"After that, you're on your own."
"And you're not going to do anything after that."
"I’ll disappear completely if you want me to."
I tilt my head up.
He's already looking at me.
He slowly kisses me. It's more like a signature. He pulls me against him, and I let myself be pulled. The next thing I know, my eyes are closing, his hand is at the back of my neck, and the slow drum of his heart under my cheek is the last thing I hear in the world.
I fall asleep.
I wake to the light through the curtains.
For one second, I don't know where I am, but I know the smell first, the pillow, the sheets, the skin under my cheek, his skin. The next thing I realize is that I stayed the night when I shouldn’t have.
I sit up so fast the duvet goes with me.
"What time is it?"
He stirs. He's on his stomach, one arm under the pillow, dark hair across his face. He props himself on his elbow. His voice is rough with sleep.
“I’m not sure. Come back to bed.” He tries to reach for me, but I pull away to search for my phone. I tap the screen and gasp at the time.
“Oh my god! It’s 6:00 a.m. Cade, I have to go.”
I'm out of bed, and so is he.
My uniform is folded on the chair by the window.
I don't remember folding it. I don't remember taking it off in any order that would have folded it. He folded it? I’ll think about that later when I’m not sprinting.
I pull the pants on, the shirt, which is wrong-side-out. I yank it off. I put it the right way.
"My ID is on the counter."
"Got it."
"My shoes."
"By the door."
He pulls on his pants. He's barefoot, and his hair is a disaster. He's calmer than any person should be this early — in a suite where his housekeeper has just woken up next to him.
"Suzanne. Breathe."
"If I clock in from this floor by this time, every camera in the hotel knows I spent the night here."
"I know."
"Roger is waiting for one thing he can use, Cade. One."
"I’m sure he is."
I'm at the kitchen counter, grabbing my ID badge and pulling my hair into a tight knot.
I freeze.
"The hallway has cameras at both ends. I came in last night. I'll be coming out this morning. Anyone watching the feed is going to see me walk into your suite at 9:00 p.m. and walk out of it this morning."
"I'll handle the cameras."
"How will you do that? I don’t think — "
"I'll handle them. Go. Take the stairs. Skip the staff elevator. I'll have the feed before Roger gets in."
"Cade…"
"Suzanne. Go."
He's at the door.
His hand finds the small of my back, only for a second. It's supposed to ground me. Instead, I almost buckle right there.
I kiss him — quick and sloppy. It's part farewell, part promise that we're hashing this out once we've both had caffeine.
I open the door.
Roger is standing right there.