Chapter3
938 Words
I’d taken the day off work, despite Tash’s desperate cries about how much she’d miss my “worthless, useless face.” I’d miss her too—about as much as I missed food poisoning. But I had my day carefully planned.
Deliver Diana’s lunch.
Take a “look” around the hotel.
Find his suite.
Get married.
Okay, I crossed out number four. Maybe a bit ambitious. But by the end of the day, I was determined to at least change my f*******: status to in a relationship.
I slipped into a red top tucked into a black pencil skirt—shorter than I remembered from high school—and scraped my hair into a messy bun secured with exactly twelve bobby pins.
After wrapping Diana’s lunch in a paper bag, I headed out. The hotel wasn’t far; she worked the front desk as a secretary, which gave me the perfect excuse to wander.
The building loomed over me like a maze waiting to swallow me whole. I braced myself, squared my shoulders, and stepped inside.
Diana spotted me instantly, grinning as she typed something into her computer. “So, you’ve started the plan.”
“Yes. And here’s your lunch.”
She peeked inside the bag, her expression wary. “Did you make it?”
“What if I did?”
“I’m sorry to break it to you, but you can’t cook to save your life—or anyone else’s.”
I pressed a hand to my chest in mock pain. “Liar. You love my brownies.”
“You buy them.”
My eyes widened. “How did you know?”
“You left the Betty’s Bakery packet in the trash.”
“I deny all claims and accusations. And besides, I bought your food.”
She smiled, picking up a muffin.
“Some of it,” I added.
She dropped it like it burned her. I laughed, earning a glare.
“I hate you,” she muttered.
“Love you too. Now, quick question—where’s Mr. CEO?”
Diana rolled her eyes but tapped a few keys. “In one of the presidential suites.”
“He’s not the president...”
“Are you trying to sound dumb?”
“Are you stereotyping me because I’m blonde?”
“Go away,” she said flatly. “I have work to do, and I can feel my brain cells dying with every second of this conversation.”
“Bye, bitch.”
I flounced off in a random direction... then realized I had no idea where the presidential suites were. Asking Diana was out of the question—she’d never let me live it down.
Luckily, divine intervention arrived in the form of an elderly couple walking past.
“So, Bart, which suite are we going to?” the woman asked.
“The presidential. I hear it’s fantastic.”
Bingo.
I trailed them casually to the elevator, though with just the three of us, my “casual” was painfully obvious.
“Hello, dear,” the woman said kindly. “Are you on holiday too?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I’m visiting... my boyfriend.”
Her smile widened. “He must be wealthy.”
“He is.” Rolling-in-cash, towels-made-of-money wealthy.
The doors opened, and they stepped off at their floor. To avoid looking like a stalker, I went up one level higher. Only two doors lined the hallway, neither with any sign of being his.
Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, I pressed my ear to the wall.
“The walls are soundproof,” I muttered to myself.
I crouched low, trying to peek under the door. No gap.
“Excuse me, miss. You’ll need to come with us.”
I spun around to find two security guards staring down at me. Confused. Amused. Not angry—thank God. Still, my face heated as I slapped my forehead.
“s**t. Security cameras.”
Of course. I’d just given them a front-row seat to my creeping.
I lifted my hands in surrender. “Now, guys, I wasn’t doing anything.” Nervous laugh. “Just... testing how soundproof the walls are. And they’re very good, by the way.”
“And looking under doors?” one asked.
“Checking... uh, checking for—” I stammered, failing miserably.
“Come with us.”
They each took an arm, guiding me toward the elevator.
“No handcuffs? That’s new. The last time I was arrested I was nineteen—and it wasn’t even my fault. Jessica broke into her ex’s house, and I told her not to, but did she listen? No—”
“Do you always talk like this?” one sighed.
“Yep. Where are we going?”
“Our head of security’s out, so you’re being taken to someone higher up.”
I swallowed hard. No plan B. No Diana to bail me out. My heart pounded as the elevator stopped.
“Don’t I get one phone call?” I asked weakly.
“You’re not going to jail. I think,” one muttered.
He knocked twice on the single door in the hallway.
“I’m coming!” a deep voice called from inside.
My breath caught.
The door opened.
“Who is this?” the voice asked, closer now.
“She was snooping on one of the floors.”
I opened my eyes—and found myself staring into hazel ones. Familiar wavy brown hair. Sharp jawline.
It could only be—
“Arthur f*****g Cross.”
Oh God. Did I just say that out loud?
- Writer
