Chapter 4
LIAM
Despair crosses her face, so stark and unguarded that my first instinct is to look away.
But the hopelessness is quickly replaced by a set jaw and determined eyes.
Her gaze, narrowed and furious, flicks again from my face down to my exposed ankles and the wardrobe malfunction she’s directly responsible for.
Her bare feet are planted on my marble floor, filthy wedding dress dragging behind her, shoes sullying the counter.
Half the lobby has stopped to stare.
I need to get her out of sight fast.
“So?” I prompt when she doesn’t reply.
“I was trying to check in.” She gestures at Adam with barely contained frustration. “Your concierge wasn’t being helpful. I was about to ask to speak to a manager, but the owner will do even better.”
I glance at Adam, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, then take her elbow—gently, despite my irritation—and pull her aside, away from the growing audience of curious guests. “You’re not checking into my hotel.”
Her head jerks back. “You can’t refuse me a room.”
“We’re fully booked,” I lie.
“Bullshit,” she spits. “That’s not what Adam said.”
“I’ll call the car back,” I offer. “It will take you to any other hotel you want. But you need to leave my lobby.”
She seems thrown back at that. “You sent the car?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Who else? But it wasn’t supposed to take you here.”
“Where then?”
“Wherever the hell it is you were going.”
“Well, I was coming here.” She pouts.
“But you’re not staying.”
“Listen, I’m exhausted.” Her hands shake as she talks. “I can’t walk another step, and I don’t want to get into that car again and drive to another hotel just to fight with another unhelpful concierge.”
I stare into her wide doe eyes. They’re hazelnut brown, with a darker rim.
Mascara is smeared beneath them, leaving faint gray tracks down her cheeks.
The misery in her gaze pulls at strings in my chest I’d rather cut loose—an unwanted, inconvenient tug of compassion.
Then my focus drops to her mouth. It isn’t bluish from the cold anymore.
Inside, under the warm lights of the lobby, her lips are a vivid, defiant, very kissable pink.
The observation sobers me up.
I remember where I am, what tonight is. My father is waiting in the ballroom. I can’t afford any distractions.
“That’s not my problem,” I say in a flat tone that makes me cringe inside. “The car will take you where you need to go.”
She looks like I’ve slapped her. “You’re a heartless bastard.
” Her lower lip wobbles. She stares at me, then at the busy lobby, and the shock in her eyes is swiftly consumed by a familiar fire.
“What if I make it your problem?” she asks, her voice rising deliberately.
“What if I tell all your wonderful, fancy guests about the reckless driver who almost ran me over and then left me stranded in the street?”
Her loud tone draws even more stares. I catch the glint of a phone screen angled in our direction.
I grab her elbow, more firmly this time, and drag her further from the crowd toward the alcove by the service elevators.
“Don’t,” I warn through gritted teeth.
She yanks her arm free. “Give me a room, or I will stand in the middle of this lobby and scream until the crystals on your precious chandeliers shatter.”
I stare at her, at the absolute, unhinged certainty in her eyes. She’ll do it. She’ll burn this entire evening to the ground to get a warm bed. The story will spread. It’ll hit social media within the hour. “Rockwood Resort turns away crying bride” will be trending before midnight.
My father will definitely mount my head on the wall.
Exasperated, out of time, patience, and options, I surrender. “Fine,” I bite out. “I’ll put you in the fucking honeymoon suite if you promise not to show yourself for the entire night.”
She blinks, surprised by the sudden capitulation. “I’m going to need free room service then.”
“Sure.”
“And a phone charger.”
“Anything else?” I grit.
She opens her mouth, probably to add more demands, then seems to think better of it. “That’s all. For now.”
I march her to the service elevator. My leg screams in protest with every step, but I keep my expression neutral. I refuse to limp in front of her.
The doors ding open, and we get in. I jab the button for the top floor, retreating to a corner. We ride up in heavy silence, her ragged breathing audible over the muted hum of the car. I don’t look at her. I keep my eyes fixed on the floor numbers as they climb.
She doesn’t look at me either. I can feel her standing rigid beside me, arms wrapped around herself, her skirts taking up most of the space.
On the penthouse level, I lead her down the carpeted hallway. She’s still barefoot. I hope Adam had the good sense to remove her shoes from the reception desk.
I swipe my electronic passkey against the honeymoon suite lock, pushing the door open. The room is palatial, absurdly romantic, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark, rain-swept lake. A California king bed dominates the main space.
“Enjoy your stay,” I say curtly, and turn to leave.
She doesn’t say thank you. The bride doesn’t acknowledge me in any way. But as I walk out of the room, I feel her eyes on my back, a strange weight between my shoulder blades, until the door closes between us.
I ride back down to the lobby and find Adam at the desk. “Get the woman in the honeymoon suite whatever she needs: room service, a charger, anything she asks for she gets. She’s with me.”
Adam seems at the end of his rope tonight, but he nods stoically. “Of course, sir.”
I button my jacket and turn to the ballroom. Time to face the music.
I straighten my shoulders, ignore the pain in my leg, and walk toward the golden lights of the gala, leaving the ghost of the bride behind me.