I glanced longingly at my room door. “Gavin, I just—”
“Fine.” He turned and marched towards the stairs. “I’m going back to the bar.”
“Wait.” The stairwell door clicked shut. “We’re on the eleventh floor,” I finished lamely.
My stomach lurched. Fishing the room key out of my clutch—miraculously still hanging from my wrist—I dipped it in and out of the card reader and ducked into the room.
“Welcome back,” Elliot called out as the door closed behind me. “Where’ve you been?”
A quick search found him digging through his duffle bag.
“Are you leaving?” I asked.
“Nope. Ah, here they are.” He pulled a small box out of the bag. “Just finding my business cards. Met an editor of Italian GQ who wants me to do a spread devoted to male muses.”
I dropped my clutch on the floor. Everything that had
