22. Graciella
TWENTY-TWO
GRACIELLA
I DO LIKE A MAN A LITTLE BIT BOSSY SO THEN I CAN TELL THEM TO GO FUCK THEMSELVES. BUT LIKE IN A HOT WAY. YA KNOW?
The eyelash-batting always worked.
Okay, usually worked—but Sandra was like a damn boulder planted behind the counter, refusing to budge.
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Her fingers flew across the keyboard, each clack wearing away at my patience. “There are no reservations here under any of the names you’ve asked me to check.”
“Okay, well…”
I needed a minute. My forehead touched the marble counter, so icy cold it burned, which was precisely the discomfort I needed to refocus. Unfortunately, when I looked back up, Sandra’s expression was the same unimpressed stare I’d dealt with for the last ten minutes.
“Okay, well, can I get a room for tonight, please?” My voice pitched high with faux enthusiasm because I was trying not to chew someone out in the middle of the lobby.
Sandy here was really rubbing on my last nerve. Funny how she was very helpful when Monroe checked in, not five minutes before.
Speaking of him…
My gaze swept the lobby for where he’d walked off to take the call from Tommy, finding everything but the man I was actually looking for.
Chandeliers dripped light across floors so polished I could see my reflection.
There were velvet seating clusters filled with people chatting and laughing, oblivious to the grudge I had against them for getting checked in without an issue.
Floral arrangements worth more than my last salary were scattered on almost every surface—it was bordering on feeling like a funeral parlor in here.
Or maybe I’m bitter.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. There are no rooms. The NHL Draft is currently going on.” Her smug tone pissed me off. “I’m not sure why you thought you had a reservation here, but perhaps it was at another establishment? There’s a Motel 6 down the road.”
I slapped the counter, the sharp sting in my palms worth seeing her jump and clutch at her chest. “Listen here, lady—”
“There a problem?” a familiar deep voice cut in, sending shivers down my spine. My head snapped over to find Monroe leaning against the reception desk, full attention on me.
“Oh no, sir, I’m fine, she—”
Monroe cut Sandra off, not bothering to look at her. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He lifted a hand, like he was going to comfort me with a touch, but he lowered it instead, clenching it at his side. “You okay?”
Butterflies looped low in my stomach at the growl in his tone—at how he was concerned for me. I couldn’t bring myself to care that this lady might talk about Monroe being an ass to her.
“There’s no reservation for me and no availability because of the Draft. She said I can stay at the Motel 6 down the road.” Monroe’s jaw ticked, and he shot her a glare.
His hand found the small of my back. “Well then, ma’am, since you aren’t very helpful, I’ll take care of this,” he said to the receptionist, steering me and my carry-on away from the desk.
I bit my lip, vanilla coating my tongue.
There was something very hot about him stepping in like that. Too bad I was pretty sure he’d made the situation worse.
“Well, the chivalry was nice,” I said in a low voice as he guided us who knew where. “But how the hell are you going to get a room here? You have a contact number for the Four Seasons CEO?”
His eyes slid over to me as he pressed the brass call button for the elevator. “Nope. Don’t have his number.” He pushed me inside, but didn’t bother stepping away. “But we don’t need a room.”
“Did you not listen to anything I said down there? They don’t have me booked here, so yes, I need a room.”
“Always so damn mouthy.” Those blue eyes slid to me, and I shivered at the heat in them. “You’re staying in my room, Trouble.”