Chapter 3
Harper
“Ugh!” I huff out a frustrated sigh as I'm speeding down the highway.
Could this day get any worse? Is this karma or something? For all the people I've outed in my career? Maybe those exposés are finally coming back to bite me.
No. No, it’s fine. I just need to survive this stupid tournament, and everything will be all right. And yes, I know it'll be stupid. Mr. Celebrity is proof of that. Just another self-centered athlete I’ll be forced to follow around and interview for the next few weeks.
Yay, me.
At least I managed to guilt my boss into putting me up in a nice hotel, and in a suite no less, using all the power of persuasion in my possession—it’s one of my specialties, after all.
I reminded her that the big sports journalists would have all the connections, and that being in the players’ hotel would help a newbie like me get her foot in the door.
I’d be in the middle of the action and in a good position to get an exclusive—a tough feat, given that every media outlet in the country is sending someone to cover the event.
After considering my points, she agreed.
And as for the suite? Well, it's an awfully long work stint, and I need a place where I can unwind at night. I also mentioned that a bathtub would help me relax after a long day. I'd wake up each morning feeling much more refreshed to tackle the day’s top stories.
Boom. Five-star suite secured.
Unfortunately, I couldn't snag the city view, but that’s not a huge loss. DC isn't exactly Paris anyway.
I turn on some music, hoping to distract myself from the memory of that jerk who stole my Twix, but traffic thickens so quickly as I near the city limits, I immediately switch it off. I need to concentrate if I don’t want to end up in a fender bender.
I’m a New Yorker. I don’t own a car, and driving is not my specialty, especially on massive freeways like these. Last thing I need is to get into an accident.
With the day I've had, it would honestly be the logical next step.
I squint at the approaching sign to make sure it's the right exit, cursing myself for having left so late. The idea of being in DC a second earlier than I needed to was too painful, and the rental car situation put me further behind. I’d even entertained the idea of leaving tomorrow morning, since the first press conference is only in the afternoon, but one of my colleagues said I’d have to get up at the crack of dawn because traffic will be a nightmare.
Plus, it’s an extra night in my suite, so why not?
Traffic gets even more intense as I approach the city center, practically bumper to bumper now, and I’m momentarily distracted by the shimmering buildings looming around me.
I’ve always loved architecture, and DC has some incredible examples of neoclassical and Beaux-Arts design—monumental, symmetrical, built to impress and endure.
We’re talking columns that echo of ancient Rome, pediments carved with allegories, facades crafted to project permanence and power. Grand, imposing. Almost ceremonial.
I pass near the Capitol, its dome glowing softly in the distance, then catch a glimpse of the Washington Monument piercing stark and pale against the darkening sky.
I guess I found the silver lining of being stuck here.
A very, very thin one.
I just said I wasn't used to driving on busy freeways, right? Well, let's add huge cities at night. It's mayhem out here. A traffic light up ahead seems to be broken, and police officers are standing in the middle of the intersection, waving cars through with glowing batons.
After white-knuckling it through the city, I finally see the hotel.
And of course, I’m in the wrong lane.
I can’t cross traffic to pull up to the curb. Not without risking my own life and the lives of several innocent commuters. Fantastic.
My jaw tightens as the GPS recalculates my route.
I grip the steering wheel until my fingers go numb, heat clinging to my skin as the AC struggles to keep up, my shirt sticking uncomfortably to my back.
Finally, the little device chirps again, informing me—far too cheerfully—that I need to drive around the block.
Again.
I circle the block, my fingernails digging into the steering wheel, and force each breath through the growing knot of irritation in my chest. I’ve officially reached that special level of tired where every minor inconvenience feels like a personal affront.
I’m finally about to enter the driveway when I have to yield to traffic coming from the right.
And here it comes.
The obnoxious red car Mr. Celebrity rented.
Our eyes lock, and I resist the urge to roll mine.
Of course he's here. I booked this hotel to be close to the players. In hindsight, maybe it wasn't such a bright idea after all.
I pull up behind him, and valets in pristine uniforms roll their luggage carts toward us at the same time.
One gives me a nod. “Good evening, ma’am. Welcome to the Four Seasons Hotel.”
“Thank you.” I offer him what feels like my first smile in days. Crawling out of the car, I stretch my back.
“Do you have any luggage I can help you with?”
I roll my shoulders. “Yes, one suitcase in the trunk.”
He retrieves my bag and hands me a valet card. “We’ll take care of your car. Call this number when you need it brought around. Your suitcase will be delivered to your room shortly.”
“Thank you.” I hand him a tip and head toward the entrance.
As I approach the door, I can’t help but glance at Mr. Celebrity. He insists on carrying his large bag himself.
No surprise there. It’s probably filled with whatever expensive gear professional athletes insist on babysitting.
A doorman opens the large glass door, and the moment I step inside, Mr. Celebrity melts away from my mind.
The lobby is breathtaking—high ceilings, golden lighting, polished stone floors, and fresh flowers bursting from vases in towering arrangements. A soft piano track plays from somewhere further in, wrapping the whole atmosphere in sheer luxury.
I drift toward the check-in desk where a smartly dressed receptionist awaits. His name tag says Kurt.
“Good evening,” he says with a dazzling smile. “Do you have a reservation with us?”
“I do.” I pull out my ID. “It should be under Harper Donnelly.”
I place my ID on the counter, and he starts typing on his keyboard.
As I wait, a surge of warm, expensive cologne drifts to me from behind, and I grimace. Mr. Celebrity is back in my mind again.
A woman named Berta is serving him, and judging by the way her eyelashes flutter and her cheeks redden, I'd say she's over the moon.
I almost snort when he flashes an annoyingly charming smile that makes poor Berta cling to the desk just to keep herself from collapsing.
“Oh,” Kurt says, a hint of worry in his tone. “There seems to be a problem. My apologies. Please give me a minute.”
He leans toward Berta, who looks like she’s about to murder him for interrupting a joke Mr. Celebrity was just telling her.
Her eyebrows furrow, and she glances back at Mr. Celebrity. “One moment,” she says to him before following Kurt to the back.
I sigh and lean on the counter.
Yeah, I should have seen this coming. Of course check-in wouldn’t be smooth. This day has lasted a full year already, and I’m ready to ring in the next one.
Mr. Celebrity steals a glance at me just as I’m studying a beautiful marble statue behind him.
Okay, fine, I was checking him out. But the guy is clearly as self-absorbed as he is handsome, and that's totally unfair if you ask me.
He raises an eyebrow, and I ignore the embarrassing way my heart kicks into high gear. I turn to look away, but just as I’m averting my eyes, he places a plastic bag on the counter, snagging my attention again. The bag says Value Gas, and sure enough he pulls out a Salted Caramel Twix bar.
He looks right at me.
Then, he bites into it, slowly. Chewing it so obnoxiously that crumbs cling to the corner of his mouth.
I wet my lips, then immediately regret it.
He licks his own lips clean and gives me a little smirk. This guy is pure evil.
Luckily, Kurt and Berta reappear, but my stomach sinks when I see their tight smiles.
“So sorry for the delay,” Kurt says, and Berta parrots him, giving me a sympathetic grin. “We found a solution. Unfortunately, you won’t be staying in one of our suites as originally planned. Of course we’ll refund the difference—”
“What? No, no, no. I need the suite.”
“I’m very sorry, Ms. Donnelly,” Kurt says, his voice low and even. “We’re fully booked because of the hockey tournament. The suites are all reserved for the players. We’re hosting both men’s teams,” he says, a hint of pride sneaking into his tone.
My mouth falls open. “You have got to be kidding me. I thought this was a five-star hotel!”
“My deepest apologies. There seems to have been an issue with the booking system. We’ll offer you a spa treatment voucher, and breakfast will be on us, of course.”
I sigh, running a hand over my frizzled hair. “Does the room have a bath, at least?”
He winces. “I'm afraid not, but there's a nice walk-in shower with hydrotherapy. And you’re welcome to use our hot tub, sauna, and the steam room at the spa at any time as well. Normally, it's extra, but I'm including that in your reservation.”
I'm about to answer when Mr. Celebrity leans toward me.
“I don’t mind giving up my suite, if it helps,” he says. “She’s had a rough day. And even if I’m a big-shot celebrity, I don’t really care about the room, or whether it comes with a bath.”
He shoots me a pointed look.
Touché, I guess. An annoying flutter chooses this moment to overtake my stomach.
Maybe because of that hint of a French accent I just detected.
It’s subtle, but it’s there. Just a slight rounding of the vowels, a faint cadence beneath his words that doesn’t quite match the clipped American tones that surround us.
It’s barely noticeable. And somehow, that makes it even more distracting.
Get it together. This guy is not being charming. He’s just trying to prove a point.
Berta beams. “That’s extremely generous, Mr. Marchand, but I’m afraid it’s not possible. The organization blocked entire floors for the teams. We can’t put anyone else there.”
“Right. VIP only,” I mutter.
“Exactly,” Berta chirps, not catching my sarcasm.
Now it’s my turn to give Mr. Celebrity a pointed look.
Kurt clears his throat. “All right, let’s get you checked in, Ms. Donnelly.”
“Thanks.” I brace my hands on the counter, forcing a strained smile. “Don’t forget that spa access.”