Chapter 7
SEVEN
CAMERON
Tuesday
Kensington Grand Hotel
London, United Kingdom
The Kensington Grand Hotel rose above us like a monument to another era.
It is the epitome of opulence and Edwardian grandeur.
Intricate stonework, towering windows, and delicate decorative flourishes make it look like it had been brought straight from the 1910s.
Inside, the sprawling lobby shimmers beneath a massive crystal chandelier, its golden glow glints off the polished marble floors and a spectacular carved wooden staircase.
I feel the subtle pull of indulgence the moment I walk in, and I savor the scent of fresh flowers as I sign in the crew and distribute room keys.
One by one, they all peel off toward the sanctuary of their rooms, exhausted from the long flight.
But Riley and Marc linger behind, waiting for me as I finish up at the reception desk.
“So, Velvet Noir,” Marc says. “I hope I packed something appropriate.”
“I hope so too, for your sake,” Riley replies. “It’ll be extremely awkward if you invite yourself out to an exclusive club and all you have are booty shorts and a tank top. I don’t think that would fly.”
I laugh heartily. I can’t tell if it was exhaustion or the jab at Marc.
“I haven’t worn booty shorts in many years, Riley.” He leers.
“I love that for you,” she commends, sliding the hotel welcome letter into her purse. “Luckily for me, I have options. My go-to black jumpsuit or a cocktail dress.”
“Which one are you leaning toward?” I ask.
“Not sure yet. I think it depends on my mood, so I’ll have to make a game-time decision.”
We walk around a table topped with a magnificent floral arrangement on our way to the elevators.
“God, these flowers are so beautiful!” Riley exclaims, cupping a gardenia in her palm and inhaling deeply. “And fresh too!”
“They really are,” I agree. “I still can’t believe we’re staying here and not in a branded chain hotel.”
“Agreed,” Marc adds. “The hotel committee actually nailed it with this one. What time are we meeting tonight? What's the plan?” He prods, hitting the elevator button.
“I’m not sure yet. I still need to text Gregg and get the details.”
“Already got his number, I see,” Marc taunts, holding the elevator door open for me and Riley.
“Well, surely the plan wasn’t for us to wander the streets of London and wait outside the club hoping the bouncer would take pity on us.” Riley scoffs.
“Yes, he gave me his card,” I clarify. “Marc, why don't you make a group chat, and when I hear back, I’ll send out the plan.”
“Will do, boss. Maybe we can grab dinner and a drink here before we go. If I remember right, the restaurant here has a decent menu.”
“I’m down,” Riley responds, and I nod reluctantly.
The elevator chimes softly and the doors part. “This is me,” Riley announces as she steps into the corridor, looking back over her shoulder. “Cam, I’ll text you after my nap. Have a good run, and be safe.”
“I will. Talk to you later.”
“See ya!” Marc calls after her as she waves and disappears behind the closing doors.
A moment later, the doors open again, and Marc and I step out into a corridor lined with polished English oak panels. Our bags roll quietly over the richly colored carpet as we walk. When I stop at my door, Marc stops too.
“Yes?” I ask, confused.
“Oh, I’m right here.” He gestures to the room across from mine. “Just waiting for you to move your bag,” he jokes.
“Oh, sorry.” I nudge my bag aside with my foot. “Didn’t even realize. I must be exhausted.”
But he didn’t move.
“You don’t wanna invite me in?” He takes a step closer. “We should catch up.”
“Sorry, Marc.” I step back. “I need a nap, and then I’m going for a run.” I tap my keycard and push open my door. “We can catch up at dinner.” I smile, willing him to take the fucking hint. I don't want to sleep with you.
“Sure, sure.” He steps back, closer to his door. “I’ll, uh, make that group chat. See ya’ later, guapo.”
“Get some rest,” I tell him as I slip into my room. As I close the door behind me, I could swear I hear him say, “you too,” but cold enough to frost glass.
My room fuses classic elegance and modern comfort.
Soft tones of ivory and beige are accented with plush velvets and deep jewel colors.
A typical sterile hotel palette, but somehow elevated and refined.
The polished wood writing desk and nightstands blend seamlessly with the modern lines of the headboard and metallic accents across the room.
I kick off my shoes and start unpacking, letting my things spread out across the room until it feels a little less temporary.
I pull off my uniform and hang my pants carefully so they won’t crease, and before I forget, I stuff my coffee-stained blazer and button-down into a hotel laundry bag, setting it quietly outside my door.
With my toiletries in hand, I step into the bright bathroom and place them on the marble counter, then turn on the hot water in the large walk-in shower.
Anxious to scald the feeling of the plane off me, I wait until the steam begins to slowly blur the mirror.
I strip out of my undershirt and briefs, and step into the scorching waterfall.
The hot water rains over me, soaking my hair and face, easing the tension in my body.
I turn around, allowing the pressure to work into my shoulders and back, and I breathe in the thick, steamy air.
Grabbing a washcloth, I lather the hotel’s Balmain soap across my body and savor the luxurious smell.
As I work the suds across my skin, green eyes pierce through the steamy haze.
Gregg’s eyes. I’m shocked when I feel myself begin to get hard at only the thought.
I dry off and pad naked from the bathroom to the bed, slipping between the sheets, I feel warm, relaxed, and sleep heavy.
But before I let myself drift, I set an alarm for noon, just in case my body decides to oversleep.
Gregg’s business card sits on the nightstand beside my wallet, and I pick it up along with my phone, opening a new message.
Archeon Global Development
Greggory Harwell
+44 20 0613 0409
Greggory.Harwell@
I type in the number, and my phone accepts it without protest, the keyboard popping up like it was personally encouraging me. I type a quick message before I can overthink or talk myself out of it.
CH: Hi Gregg. This is Cameron, the coffee guy from the plane. Sorry again about earlier. But yes, I’d love to meet… just us. LMK. Talk to you soon!
I tap send before I can second-guess every word, and the message pops into a little bubble and delivers. I decide to save the number, and silently pray I won’t wake up to the humiliation of being left on read.
Having touched metaphorical water and created a ripple, I set my phone to vibrate and turn it face-down.
I’m staring at the ceiling longer than I care to admit, and I sigh as I slide out of bed and cross the room to my bag.
After a moment of rummaging, I pull out a water bottle and take two large swigs of gin from it.
Only to calm my nerves, I tell myself, then I bury my face in the plush pillow, and fall asleep almost instantly.
I slow my pace to a walk and try to catch my breath.
Bending forward, I stretch the backs of my legs, then stand straight up and take a long, steadying inhale.
Seventy-eight degrees, sunny, and just enough breeze to feel like the city exhaled with me.
It had been a long time since I’ve had this beautiful of a day in London.
I love running here, especially Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.
It’s a perfect mix of quiet formality of impeccable gardens and semi-woodlands that make the miles easy to forget.
I had started at the Palace Gate, taken the Broad Walk, and just before exiting, cut down the North Walk toward the Italian Gardens and water so I could hug the Serpentine.
Before I realized it, eight miles had carried me back to Kensington Palace, and I finally sank onto a bench by the Round Pond.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my T-shirt, and lift my wrist, tapping ‘End Workout’ on my watch.
As I drink from a small water bottle I’d snagged from the minibar in my room, no gin, only water, I watch tourists with guidebooks and cameras wander along, locals walking their dogs, and a group of children laughing as they feed geese and swans gliding across the pond.
It was just after one in the afternoon, and I didn’t manage to sleep much, not without the fear that I’d drop straight back into that nightmare.
Even thinking about it made my chest tighten.
That jolt of turbulence before landing had drug me straight back into the worst moment of my life and all the feelings that came with waking up to the news that flight two had disappeared.
Gregg had caught me, but letting his words in…
that was hard. It feels like accepting comfort means letting go of Drew, and I’m not ready for that.
So I’d cancelled my alarm, pulled myself out of bed, and gone running. I needed air. I needed space.
Just don’t salvage yourself out of a chance at something good… Life is too short. Riley’s advice still echoed.
I sit back and take in the distant skyline of London, then I feel my phone buzz in the small pocket of my running shorts. After I fish it out, I swipe open the screen to see a response from Mom.
LH: Good morning, sweetheart! Of course you can stay a few days! You can stay as long as you want! As long as you’re ok with me getting up early for pickleball…OTW now! Can’t wait for you to see the garden!
I type back.
CH: Good morning. Thanks! I can’t wait to see the garden. And you! Since when do you play pickleball? Bored with golf?
After a few minutes, she responds.
LH: Funny you should ask—I just picked it up. I play with Amy at the YMCA. It’s cutthroat! I think you’d like it!