6. 6
My head spins a bit as I step into the elevator. The Tate Continental is luxury, comfort but too shiny for my style.
“Who names their hotel chain after themselves?” I wonder aloud as I stab the button for my floor. Full disclosure—it does take a long minute for me to remember what floor my room is on.
Wine with dinner and then beer at the bar Marcus dragged me to, and then Scotch—when was the last time I drank Scotch?— All the alcohol swirling in my belly checks my usual critique that happens every time I step foot in a hotel.
When I travel, I’m supposed to compare every place to the Sandflower Resorts—service, décor, comfort, cost—and if our places don’t come out on top, I’m supposed to figure out a way to fix that.
The only problem with that is that my father hates my ideas. In fact, he usually finds a way to blame me if Sandflower doesn’t measure up. I can’t win, so I’ve stopped trying. I told my father I was staying with Marcus and paid for my room with my personal credit card, the one he didn’t have access to.
I hate that my father has me by the short and curlies, financially speaking.
The mirror in the elevator could use a shine, mainly because between the sixteenth and eighteenth floors, I sway a little too far to the left and rest my forehead against it. It leaves a smudge. Rubbing the spot with my sleeve doesn’t help.
I give up, leaning my head against the wall rather than the mirror, like a naughty boy sent to the corner by the teacher.
The chime that signals we’re up to the twentieth floor rouses me and I stumble forward as the doors open.
Then I stop. Because… her.
Even with the alcohol, I recognize her as the redhead from the restaurant.
Thankfully, I haven’t drunk enough to start seeing double, so there’s only one of her. Although I wouldn’t be opposed to cloning.
“Hey.” I sound like I know her rather than just stared at her for the length of a meal. “How you doin’?”
I don’t mean to sound like Joey Tribbiani but it really comes out like that.
She winces. The woman is a goddess in that black dress and I sound like a cheap hack quoting Friends. Not my finest moment.
“Sorry,” I mumble, doing my best not to sway. “You’re Cady Quinn.”
She waits for me to exit, but I don’t move. The door shuts, leaving me confused and still in the elevator. “Jesus.” I stab the open button with a frustrated finger. Nothing happens. “Hello?” I call. “Can you let me out of here? Hello?”
A moment later, the door slides open again and she’s still standing there. I can’t tell if she’s amused or disgusted.
Maybe a bit of both. Amusted.
“Pardon?” Cady says, which means… I said that out loud.
“Nothing.” I lurch for the door and lean against it so it won’t close again. “Thanks. You saved me.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Goody.”
“You don’t want to save me?”
“I want to get in the elevator and to my room, but someone won’t get out of my way.”
Cady’s hair is loose, no longer pulled back in a bun but snaking down her shoulder in a red river.
“Red river of hair,” I say.
“What are you talking about?”
“Sorry.” Now I sound like I’m imitating a snake. “My filter isn’t working. You want me to get out?”
“That’s usually what happens when the elevator doors open.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re funny.”
“I’m tired.”
Now that she mentions it— “You do look tired.” She looks like she’d been rudely awoken, with purple shadows and traces of mascara under her eyes. “Haven’t you been to sleep? It’s late and—”
And then I remember who left with. If she hadn’t gotten any sleep, that means that she and Noam Tate—
“No,” she says quickly.
I recoil in horror. “Did I say that out loud?”
“No, but I could tell by your face what you were thinking. And no. Not that it’s any of your business, but no.”
“Nothing is not my business. I mean…” I shake my head, which only makes the spinning worse. “I apologize for saying you look tired. Women don’t like that.”
“No, we don’t.”
“You look beautiful, not tired at all.” Alas, the slurring makes it sound like bootiful, with a long o. “So much not tired that I would love if you stayed awake and came back to my room for breakfast.”
“No, thank you.” Even in my state, Cady’s voice is as icy as the Atlantic Ocean in January.
My hands go up. “Not like that,” I protest. “I seriously get a craving for pancakes when I drink. And I guess you can tell I’ve been drinking.”
The elevator door bumped into my back like a neglected lover demanding attention.
“I guess,” she says scornfully.
“So, want pancakes? They make them good here with real maple syrup or if you don’t like that, they have this blueberry syrup but it has a bit of bourbon, and I really don’t need any more to drink…” I trail off and try my best to give her a winning smile.
I don’t think it works.
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t like to repeat myself, but in this case, I see I have no choice.” Cady heaves a sigh, sounding scarily like my father when I’ve pissed him off. I shake my head to rid myself of any comparisons between this goddess of a woman and my asshole of a father. “I don’t want to eat pancakes with you. I would like to enter the elevator and go home.”
She doesn’t sound like an asshole, so I give a gallant sweep of my arm and invite her in. “By all means. Join me.”
She drops her smile. “I’m not getting in that elevator until you get out.”
“Ah.” I step out, keeping my hand on the door to keep it open. “Sorry.”
“Mm-hmm.” The way she steps around me and into the elevator suggests she’s more annoyed rather than afraid, but she looks far away standing at the very back of the car.
I hate that I made her feel uncomfortable, but can’t seem to let go of the door. “I’m sorry. You said you’re going home? You’re not staying here?”
“That’s really none of your business.” Her voice is tired. More exhausted than annoyed. A woman like her shouldn’t be wandering the halls of a hotel in the middle of the night. She should be tucked up beside a man.
Not a man, unless it’s me as a man. Cady could be tucked up beside me and I would enjoy that. Not other men. Don’t want to picture that. “It’s just that I wanted to invite you for breakfast.” I try for cheerful instead of whining. Or begging. There’s a good chance I might be seen as begging.
Marcus will disown me as his friend if he hears about this.
She frowns. “There’s no way you’re making breakfast.”
“I can’t make breakfast.” I draw back, aghast and only half joking. “You think somebody who looks this good can cook?”
There—those lips twitch in what has to be a smile. The start of one, anyway. “I can cook,” she says.
“You think you’re prettier than me?” I protest.
“Boo-tiful, I think you called me.” Another twitch.
“You want to smile. I can tell.”
“No. I really don’t.”
“But you do.”
“No.” Any hint of humour has vanished from her face. “Now, if you don’t mind.” She makes a shooing motion with her hands.
I back away, into the hall. “I’m sorry,” I call again, catching the door before it closes.
“Exactly what are you sorry for?”
“Being a drunken idiot?”
“Admitting is half the battle.” And then, as I let the doors slide together, she smiles.
A radiant, full-faced smile. It’s like the dim lights in the elevator were replaced with 150-watt bulbs.
And then the door closes, and she’s gone.