When We Dance

“We’re going back,” I say as the car starts moving.

“Yes, Miss.”

I don’t have to tell him where I need to be, making me think he’s already gotten his instructions from Alejandro.

The car rolls down the streets with little traffic, the typical busyness of a Saturday morning not here yet.

Soon, the hotel looms in front of us. And the first thing I see is the white sports car in front of the entrance. The one Francisco and Alejandro have both driven.

Alejandro is back.

Why is the car waiting in front of the hotel?

The parking attendant and the limousine driver greet each other when we pull to a smooth stop behind the white sports car.

They even exchange a few words.

It’s nothing related to the car. Who is the parking attendant waiting for? Is Alejandro inside? Even if he is, I have to go straight to my room. That was the whole plan.

In fact, arriving late might’ve already ruined our plan.

I rise out of my seat and look around. It’s too early for guests to be outside. The ones partying all night have returned, and the ones like me are rare.

I thank my driver and move away, glancing at the white car, expecting to see Francisco or Alejandro, or even Kai. What do I know? I have no idea what happened last night except for what happened to me. And even that is a little fuzzy.

Okay. Things are good. I enter the lobby. And it smells like fresh coffee. It smells so good I look around, searching for it.

It smells like flowers and coffee, in fact, while I smell like the ocean and sex. It’s a good combination. I would love a cup of coffee.

As if reading my mind, the concierge clerk greets me with a smile and a proposal.

He shows me to a table with fresh pastries and coffee. That’s a nice touch.

“Would you like to order something from room service?” he asks.

“No. I’m good. Only coffee, please.”

I probably look famished. Everybody offers me food.

He gets to the coffee first, and I crush my impulse to fix myself a cup, forgetting that I’m a guest and this is not my job.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Neither. Straight black. It smells delicious.”

“It tastes fantastic too.”

We start chatting about the flavor as I sip the dark concoction. It’s a medium roast with a slight natural sweetness, and I love it.

The man talks me into trying a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and I wait for him to pour a glass for me when my eyes flick across the lobby.

A broad-shouldered man saunters from the elevator to the exit. I turn to stone. He’s changed his shirt. He no longer wears a black shirt and matching pants.

He wears a dark red shirt and black pants. Designers shoes. No socks. I know that. He has had none last night. He’s clean-shaven, his dark hair shining.

He looks like he’s showered and changed his clothes.

He also looks like he’s changed his plans.