“Hollie?”
Ryan stands. “Hey, Roger. Yeah, our sneaky streaker here twisted the hell out of her ankle in those stripper shoes.”
“They are not stripper shoes.” They are, a little bit, but every girl needs a good pair of those. Mr. High-and-Mighty. “You’re a judgey asshole for a concierge. I’m a paying guest. You should be nicer to me.”
“And here I thought maybe she’d met some dashing young man in the lobby and abandoned me forever,” Roger says. I peek out long enough to see him leaning over my lower half. His eyes travel up my now un-stockinged leg and his finger extends to touch the balloon growing around my ankle.
“Jesus! Don’t touch it! It hurts!”
“Sorry. Wow, that looks bad. That might need something stronger than wine,” he says.
Miss Betty returns with not crutches but rather a wh
