Chapter One #3
But by then I’d been hustling so hard to advance my career I barely looked up.
I thought that’s what we were supposed to do in our midtwenties.
I thought reaping the rewards came later: disposable income, vacations, weekends.
I worked eighteen-hour days. I scraped for every freelancing gig.
When I was hired under Billy at the LA Times foreign-news desk, I felt like I’d been given a golden egg.
During all of it, I didn’t really have time—didn’t really take time—to notice how Spence had changed.
I’d changed, too, I guess. I’d always been ambitious, but those first few months at the Times had simmered off the weak, diluted parts of me that didn’t know how to go after what I wanted.
I grew hardened mentally, having to battle for every story, every inch of copy.
The grueling hours, skipped meals, and sprinting all over town left me hard physically, too.
Sometimes I get why Spence did it. Sometimes I get why our friends took his side.
Sometimes, I want to forgive them all just to be done carrying it around alone.
When I shove away from the door and step in front of the mirror, I’m horrified to catch a glimpse of my haggard reflection. My eyes are deeply bloodshot. Skin sallow and shiny. My lips are chapped, and my hair holds its shape in the bun even when I take out the clip.
Good God I smell.
Shedding my clothes, I imagine tossing them into the trash can, stuffing my jeans and socks and even my underwear in the small brass receptacle.
I could leave my suitcase in Seattle and never have to see any of these things again.
Alec probably wouldn’t even wonder why I’d done it—everything I had on is now crumpled on the floor and looks like it wouldn’t last another day anyway.
Naked, I turn on the shower and look around while the water heats up.
The bathroom counter is a massive slab of granite, the sink a raised and gleaming blown-glass bowl.
The complimentary toiletries are full-size and housed in a plush leather case.
It’s disorienting to enjoy such luxury when I feel barely human.
When I step under the showerhead, I can’t help the moan that escapes.
I have never had a shower this good, but especially in the past two weeks, every shower has been rushed and distracted.
A quick rinse before shoving an apple in my mouth and bolting out the door.
Some days it was only cold water splashed on my face and a fresh application of deodorant.
But this is bliss. Water pressure for the gods.
Foamy body wash, expensive shampoo, and a conditioner that smells so good I don’t want to rinse it out.
I’m aware that Alec is out there waiting, probably wanting to go to bed himself, so I do rinse, but only after using the small razor to shave myself clean and the body scrub to make my skin tingle all over.
The towel is plush and enormous. I brush my teeth with one of the toothbrushes in the vanity kit, then turn to grab my suitcase.
Which I have left out in the hallway.
Of course I have. Because of course the flight was canceled, and there are no more rooms available.
Of course Alec is here, and he goes by the much fancier name Alexander, and he’s a god and I’m a monster, and of course he has an enormous suite and he let me shower here, so of course my suitcase is out in the hall.
There are two robes on the back of the door, and I pull one free from its hanger, sliding into it.
Soft, thick—it smells like lavender. I have never felt so clean and refreshed in my entire lifetime; for the first time in several days I’m hopeful that I can get home and find the strength and energy to write the story that’s been haunting my sleeping and waking hours.
Out in the hallway is my bag, and I catch a glimpse of Alec in the living room—facing the window, hands tucked into his pockets as he looks out over the skyline.
He turns at the sound of my suitcase wheels on the marble floor and our eyes meet.
Electricity spirals through my torso and he takes in my clean face, my wet hair, now free from the grubby bun.
It’s spread halfway down my back and is darker from the water.
And then his gaze trails down my neck and widens—
I clutch the robe closed where it’s gapped open. Oh God.
Jerking my suitcase in with me, I call out a mortified “Sorry!” and slam the bathroom door closed again. I don’t know how much boob he saw, but it definitely wasn’t no boob.
Suitcase open. Hair towel-dried and brushed, lotion applied, and now comes the hard part.
Nothing is clean, but the question is, what is the least dirty?
Packing only a carry-on for a two-week trip means wearing things multiple times, but even having washed some things in a sink at the hotel in London, everything at this point is crumpled and worn—horrible, really.
I pull out a bra and a red three-quarter-sleeve jersey dress. Forgivingly wrinkle-resistant. Comfortable. Cute. I take a sniff and decide it smells fine. Maybe too dressy for a cab ride over to another hotel, but unlike pants, it doesn’t require me to put on a pair of dirty underwear.
Truly, I am a mess.
Packing everything back up, I move out into the hall.
“Alec,” I say with gratitude, and he turns. His expression tightens, and he looks me over in surprise. “Thank you. Seriously, I feel like a new person after that shower.”
He nods. “You’re welcome. I’ll walk you down.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I don’t mind. I’m not tired anyway. I’ll probably get a drink downstairs.”
Inadvertently, my attention darts across the room to the fully stocked bar in the corner. “Oh. Okay.”
“I spend a lot of time alone in hotel rooms,” he explains, giving me a new and devastating grin. This smile is different. It’s flirtatious and oddly knowing. It feels like fingertips slowly dragged down my arm.
I turn and move toward the door, suddenly aware how close we are.
I mean, not really—I don’t think he’s moved from where he stood near the window, but an odd silence has fallen over the room and the force of his presence shrinks the cavernous suite down to a shoebox.
Even with my back to him, I sense that his eyes have scanned my body, that he’s figured out I don’t have underwear on.
And maybe in reality he’s looking at his phone behind me and the last thing he would think about is what’s under my dress, but somehow it doesn’t feel like it.
I feel the press of his attention like a hot iron against every part of my body he can see.
The back of my legs, the small of my back, my shoulders.
My hand as I brace against the wall to balance and put on my Vans—shoes that absolutely don’t work with this dress, but I’m beyond caring.
Alec Kim probably dates women who only wear four-inch heels or higher.
Who roll out of bed fully made up and who never run out of clean underwear.
But I’m too tired to worry what I look like from the back right now. If thirty-three-year-old Alec Kim wants to check out grown-up me in the cleanest article of clothing I currently own, I’m not going to stop him.