Skylar
I frown at the small bouquet of flowers on my nightstand. Stems already wilting. Petals bruised at the edges. They’re the kind you buy from a gas station at the last minute, just so you can claim you got something.
Rolling my eyes, I rip off the tiny card taped to the plastic sleeve.
Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’ve known Josh since I was twelve and this selfish imbecile still can’t seem to remember that my middle name is Amethyst.
Sadly, this is so on brand for him, it’s nearly comical.
I suppose I should be grateful that at least he tried. Usually, he reminds me that because I’m a leap year baby, he’s only technically obligated to acknowledge my birthday every four years.
So…progress?
A knock rattles the hotel door before I can decide just how upset I should be about discount daisies and an unsolicited name change.
Whoever was there is long gone by the time I answer it. However, they left a cardboard drink carrier holding what appears to be my favorite morning coffee order…along with two boxes. One of which looks like it contains something yummy inside.
Intrigued, I inspect the coffee first and sure enough, it’s exactly how I take it. Oat milk. Two pumps sugar-free vanilla, and a mountain of whipped cream that could earn its own spot in the food pyramid. Inside the pastry box is a gigantic and unapologetically purple glazed donut.
My excitement spikes as my eyes land on the final box…sleek, decadent and stamped with a word that nearly every woman with a shoe fetish loves to see: Louboutin.
I open the card sitting on top. His unmistakable handwriting—sharp, slanted, and written in purple ink—cuts through the white.
Spa: 11:00 a.m. Don’t be late.
PS: Enjoy your new feet prisoners.
—M
It’s all I can do not to scream and jump up and down like a lunatic.
Screw it. It is my birthday after all.
And thanks to Memphis, it’s officially shaping up to be the best one I’ve ever had.
After a quick solo dance party, I try on the shoes. They fit like a glove.
Then again, I’m not surprised. This is Memphis we’re talking about. The man could moonlight as a detective.
Taking a gluttonous bite of my donut and chasing it down with a big sip of my iced coffee, I walk over to the window, gazing at the now bustling city below me.
I was prepared for another typical birthday where Josh either forgets or comes up with some ridiculous excuse not to celebrate me.
But this time, not only do I feel celebrated.
I feel seen.
At eleven on the dot, a woman with the hands of an angel melts my knots into butter. For ninety whole minutes, I let myself bask in the feeling of being pampered…without guilt.
By the time I return to my hotel, my skin is akin to silk, and I smell like something called ‘orchid crush.’
The afternoon light is beginning to fade when I step into my room and the poor gas station bouquet has wilted even more…as if exhausted by the effort of pretending to be something she isn’t.
I know the feeling, sister.
I’m debating putting the poor thing out of its misery and tossing it, but the large box on the desk—along with another card—catches my eye.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
My eyes widen when I uncover the stunning purple dress. A décolletage neckline, subtle open back, and rich fabric that drapes over your curves while flattering any imperfections.
This baby knows exactly what it’s giving.
After ogling the dress a few moments longer, I open the card.
8:00 p.m. — Hotel Bar.
Tell the bartender your name.
My smile is so big my cheeks physically ache.
At 7:59, I head down to the bar as instructed. Josh has been unsurprisingly busy all day, so there’s been no need to make up excuses as to my whereabouts. Or lie about all the amazing gifts I’ve received.
Memphis is far too generous for words. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay him.
I give myself a quick once-over in the elevator mirror before the doors part. This dress is far bolder than I am…but maybe I’ll give her a run for her money tonight. Something tells me it’s the only form of reimbursement Memphis wouldn’t object to.
Smoothing a hand down the fabric, I make a beeline for the bartender and tell him my name.
He blinks a few times before recognition washes over his face and he ducks beneath the counter. A small velvet box is placed on the polished wood in front of me, along with another white envelope.
A small gasp leaves me as I take in the gorgeous amethyst studs, mirroring the deep shade of a storm at dusk.
I eagerly fasten them in my ears and open the card.
Head to room 203.
Once again, my smile is so wide it aches as I practically skip back toward the elevator to meet my man.
I’m expecting Memphis to greet me, but to my surprise, it’s Storm on the other side of the door. His hair is nothing short of a catastrophe and he’s wearing a semi-fitted t-shirt that says I ? Consent.
He leans against the doorway like a bouncer working the entrance of a club full of bad decisions and cheap alcohol. “Not who you were expecting, huh?”
“Nope.”
“You look nice.” His eyes skate over my dress, somehow managing to appear both approving and brotherly before he sighs. “I don’t know how I keep getting roped into this shit.”
Reaching over, I pat his bicep. “Probably because you’re a closet romantic.”
He shoots me a look like I’ve just accused him of spending his free time crocheting with Grams and her Bingo friends.
Fishing in the pocket of his sweatpants, he hands me a card. “Here.”
I read it aloud. “What song were you shaking your ass to in Mrs. Landrum’s kitchen? If you give Storm the right answer, he’ll give you a present.”
“Would you look at that?” he says dryly. “Guess my dick is a present.”
“Brave statement from a man Memphis nearly kicked the shit out of not too long ago.” I hold out my hand. “‘Smells Like Teen Spirit.’”
He blinks. “How the hell does anyone dance to that song?”
I bat my lashes. “Some of us are versatile.”
Chuckling, he disappears for a moment before returning with a heart-shaped box. When I open the lid, “Heart-Shaped Box” by Nirvana starts playing.
“Hold off on the breakdancing,” he says, handing me a second white note. “I have another one of these.”
Chandler. Now.
The two words are scrawled in penmanship that’s both irritated and hurried. Like a bookie chasing down the money I owe him.
“Happy sixth birthday,” Storm says, giving me a hug. “Don’t screw this up.”
I want to tell him that it’s not quite my sixth birthday, but I’m too caught up on what else he said.
My throat tightens. “I won’t.”
Chandler opens his door with managerial suspicion, annoyance…and an adorable stuffed reptile under one arm.
He nearly throws it at me. “Here’s your alligator.”
Petting the soft snout, I read the tag on the collar: Louis.
“Actually,” I correct with a giggle. “He’s a crocodile.”
He grunts. “Of course he is.”
I hold out my hand. “Do you have anything else for me?”
“Pick out a t-shirt from the merchandise table at the next show,” he says curtly. “Happy birthday.”
He starts to close the door, but I stop him. “I appreciate it, but I meant another note.”
“Right.” Sighing, he pats the pockets of his cargos. “Where the hell did I put that damn thing?” His phone rings and he sputters a string of curses. “Roof.”
“Huh?”
“Go to the roof.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
He stares at me for a long beat then sighs again, like it pains him. “Happy Birthday, Skylar.”
The translation isn’t lost on me. Be careful. Be quick. Don’t get caught.
Or maybe, just maybe. You deserve this one nice thing.
The elevator opens to a gentle breeze and a night sky, the rooftop pool shimmering under the moonlight’s glow. “Wow.”
Candle lanterns illuminate the perimeter and purple tea lights lead the way to a beautifully set dining table, draped with a matching tablecloth, that’s nestled at the far end of the pool.
I spin around ever so slightly…and what I see next takes my breath away.
The ambiance is beautiful, but it’s nothing compared to how Memphis looks right now.
He’s wearing an ink-dark suit. His shirt is open at the collar, and his sleeves are pushed up to his elbows…
showcasing those veiny forearms. His dark eyes are molten with a blend of desire and possessiveness. “Hey, you.”
The fact he can greet me so nonchalantly, like he isn’t my very own knight in shining armor giving me the most memorable day of my life is wild. Almost as wild as him planning a scavenger hunt with all my favorite things followed by an elaborate, but intimate rooftop dinner.
“You’re crazy,” I say with a smile.
He merely shrugs, like it was nothing.
But it’s everything.
A breeze skims over the pool and the scent of fried chicken wafts through the air. I turn my head, and sure enough, a waiter is carefully carrying out a tray of it.
In the middle of the table is a skillet, bubbling with peach cobbler, which smells equally as heavenly.
I turn back to Memphis who’s grinning from ear to ear. “I figured we’d have dessert first.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice because I’m already moving toward it. “You know me so well.”
Better than anyone else.
“The crust is her favorite part,” Memphis tells the waiter.
With a nod, he plates a big piece that’s more crust than peach.
My heart folds in on itself as I soak it all in. The lengths this man went to just to make my birthday special…is something I’ll never forget. I feel like a princess. Actually, screw that, I feel like a freaking empress.
“Memphis—”
“Don’t,” he interjects. “I just wanted to put a smile on your face.” He picks up his spoon. “Now take a bite.”
Ha. This is cobbler we’re talking about. I dig in like I haven’t eaten in days. “Wow. It’s almost as good as Valerie and Grams.”
That might sound like an insult to anyone who hasn’t tasted their cobbler, but it’s most definitely high praise.
Smiling, he watches me eat like it’s some kind of holy experience.
“Oh my god,” I mumble when I move onto the chicken. “It’s sacrilegious how good this is.”
Even the wine tastes like fresh cherries plotting sin.