21. Ari
Ari
In the end I find a rather nice hotel in the next town with a proper bar – that serves what appears to be Sanguis when I zoom in on the tiny pictures – and a view over the sea.
It’s pricey, certainly far more than I should spend, but by this time tomorrow we should have all the funding in place for Only Fangs and so it’ll all be worth it.
The drive to Wales starts fairly uneventfully.
Brody is quiet, his tongue trapped between his front teeth as he navigates the unfamiliar roads and the surprisingly heavy traffic for a random weekday afternoon.
I know I should offer to take over for a while, but I think we’d both appreciate arriving in one piece.
“Are you actually a pensioner?” I ask him when I see what he’s chosen.
“You can’t beat the classics,” he replies.
An hour later I’m grateful for his remaining Werther’s originals – I obviously ate all my Haribo in ten minutes – when we hit a huge traffic jam. I check Google maps, but it lies and tells me the route is clear.
“I could check,” I say.
“Check?” he turns in his seat as he replies.
“Just a little float around, see what’s happening.”
“People would see you.” He sounds almost shocked.
“So?” But just at that moment Google maps updates and shows a thick line – the red so dark it’s almost black – snaking into the distance. I point to it and Brody groans.
“We should have got more car snacks.”
It’s gone nine by the time we finally pull up to the hotel. It’s gorgeous; almost a castle, light spilling out of the windows and illuminating the turrets against the night sky.
But it all starts to fall apart when we get to the closed front door.
A man finally lumbers over from his position behind the front desk to open it. “Can I help you?” he asks in clipped tones. He’s wearing a rather shabby looking shirt with an unbuttoned waistcoat.
“We’re here to check in.”
He sighs loudly and looks at the space on his wrist where a watch would be if he was wearing one.
“We got stuck in traffic. There was an accident on the A479.”
“Check in closed at eight.” He sounds bored, as if our presence is wholly inconvenient to him.
“Actually,” Brody steps forwards with his phone in hand, “your website says check in is available until eleven.”
“Fine. Whatever,” he mutters. “Come in.” We follow him as he crosses to the check in desk. “Name?”
“Haywood.”
He clacks a few keys and a small printer next to him spits out two small pieces of card.
He mutters a few things under his breath but I try to take deep breaths and tune him out.
I know I shouldn’t say anything about the shoddy level of customer service; after all, the last thing I want is for Brody to think I’m a Karen.
But his final sentence is directed directly at me, loudly enough I can’t tune ignore him. “I’m afraid the restaurant is closed.”
“And the bar?”
“There’s a private function.”
“Fuck’s sake,” I whisper under my breath, but he obviously hears me and sucks in his breath. Pearl clutcher. Imagine what he’d do if he realised who, or rather what, I am.
“There is room service available,” he tells me a little more crisply than necessary. I keep my mouth closed as I run my tongue over my teeth, desperate to bare them and scare the shit out of him for being somehow so self-righteous and sloppy at the same time.
“That’s great. Thank you,” Brody says, stepping in front of me and forcing the situation to de-escalate.
I feel myself relax instantly and the sensation is almost alien; I’m so used to being with Ivan and Clara, who both tend to intensify things further.
He picks up the keys to the two rooms. “And what time is breakfast?”
“Between seven and nine.”
“Perfect,” Brody replies and then he takes me by the elbow and leads me towards the lift. I allow him to. I could almost get used to having someone else on my team, someone to make things easier, it’s… well, it’s nice.
Our rooms are on the same floor but opposite ends of the long corridor. “Your place or mine?” I ask him as we exit the lift and stand awkwardly in front of the signs to where each room is.
“Yours. You have a balcony.”
“Do I?”
“I think you weren’t listening to the guy on the front desk.”
If I could blush I would. I don’t want him to know I was preoccupied by thinking about doing that horrible man serious bodily harm.
Brody heads to his own room to drop off his bag and I head into mine.
It’s incredible. A huge four poster bed, with matching dark wood bedside tables and a built in unit housing the TV, fancy coffee machine and a basket of amenities.
I pick up a tablet and inspect the display.
Apparently it can control the lights and the temperature and even the curtains.
Heavy drapes cover the windows but with the press of an icon they begin to draw back, revealing the balcony beyond.
But it isn’t just a balcony, it’s a balcony with a hot tub.
The water’s already warm, I can see the steam swirling into the cool night air.
I could get used to this level of luxury.
I use the tablet to switch it on and watch the bubbles begin to rise to the surface. Perfect.
Brody knocks on the door, brandishing a room service menu. “There isn’t much choice,” he says apologetically, as if the lack of range is his fault.
I take it from him and scan the sparse list of items on offer. “They do club sandwiches.” I shrug. “I mean, what else do you ever order from room service anyway?”
“True.”
“Shall we get some wine?” I ask, crossing my fingers that he says yes.
A vague idea is forming in my head, a mental image of us in the hot tub sipping a crisp Sancerre.
Or is that highly inappropriate? He is my employee.
My human employee. But it isn’t like anything has to happen between us.
Friends drink wine in hot tubs too. Right?
I don’t mention my hot tub thoughts as we wait for the food to arrive.
I’m mentally prepared for a long wait given the shambles at check in, but I’m surprised by a knock on the door just fifteen minutes later.
I try not to wince at the price tag as I sign for the food.
One more day and everything will be fine on the finances front.
We eat at the small table inside the room and then order another bottle of wine. I’m feeling kind of mellow, like we’re on holiday and the edges are starting to soften.
“If only we’d bought swimwear, we could have drunk it in the hot tub,” Brody says.
“We still could. I mean, what’s really the difference between underwear and swimwear?” I make it sound like a casual question.
“Well…” He doesn’t seem wholly against the idea.
“So?”
“So…” He raises an eyebrow. Are we flirting?
Do I want us to be? It isn’t like we aren’t adults…
able to have fun and move on. I tamp down the voice in my head that asks if we can really just be fuck buddies and instead I listen to the other voice.
The one that normally gets me into trouble. Go on, it says.
We strip to our underwear. He wears dark grey boxers that make his arse look amazing and when he turns to face me, I can see he’s been rather blessed.
I’m wearing a functional black combo, but at least it matches and doesn’t look too threadbare.
And I don’t look like I had plans to seduce him all along.
He gets in first and lowers himself into the warm water, a look of bliss spreading across his handsome features. “Come on in,” he tells me with a cheeky grin.
I slip as I step into the hot tub and for a moment I’m falling, my brain doing that thing where you know something bad is happening and you’re powerless to stop it so you just blindly accept your fate.
But Brody reaches out and catches me, pulling me to the safety of his lap with barely a splash. “I’ve got you,” he says, his voice suddenly lower, more of a growl than a sentence. His hands are on my waist.
I’m drunk. I know I’m drunk. And I know this is probably a bad idea. But why can’t we have a little fun? I don’t have to fall for this man. It can just be tonight. One perfect night in a hot tub on a balcony overlooking the sea, moonlight dancing across the dark waves.
I shift my weight so I’m straddling him and then I lean down and kiss him. His hand snakes up to the top of my back, pulling me down, the kiss hardening. Lips and teeth and tongues and a guttural grown from deep in the back of my throat.
We make out like teenagers: desperate, hungry, horny teenagers who can’t get enough of each other. Eventually we come up for air. I can feel the swell of him through his boxers and I grind my hips as he reaches both hands to cup my bottom.
“I…” he tries to say, eyes dark with lust.
“Shall we go inside?” I ask, desperate to pull him onto the bed, to feel the weight of him.
“Do you have any protection?” he asks, voice husky in my ear.
“Shit…”
“I have some. In my room,” he adds quickly.
“Go,” I tell him and he practically jumps from the hot tub, wrapping a towel around his waist. “Be fast,” I urge him.
He salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”