Stealing the Bride

I start to say yes, then catch myself. Instead of going with her and Joe, I should go back to the hotel. If nothing else, I owe Whiskey more than fifty dollars for the room. I only left him that little because it’s all I had in my purse this morning, and I was running too late to grab more from an ATM.

But that doesn’t mean fifty dollars is enough to wipe the slate clean. I prefer to keep financial transactions tidy, without one person owing another. I’m a modern, independent woman with my own money. No reason he should pay for the whole thing when I used the room too.

“It’s all right,” I say. “Nobody likes having a third wheel on a romantic lunch date. Besides, I need to go home and get some sleep.”

> “Ha ha, I’ll bet. It’s a shame, though. If he was that good, he’s definitely worth exploring more with. He could be the one for you.”

It’d be nice, wouldn’t it, to see if we’re compatible out of bed, too? “Maybe I’ll run into him after the promotion.”

“The next few weeks aren’t going to make or break anything.” She squeezes my hand. “Don’t stress over it. You’ll only end up second-guessing yourself and making silly mistakes.”

Curie is one of the smartest people I know, and she gets me better than anybody. “Yeah, you’re right.”

We say goodbye in front of the boutique. I get in my car and drive to the Aylster Hotel. I give my key to the uniformed valet, but tell him, “I’m visiting someone. I’ll be out soon.”

Probably. Or maybe not so soon, if I’m lucky.

And the little belly flips are screaming, Get lucky! Get lucky, get lucky, lucky, luckyluckylucky.

I step inside the lobby. In the corner opposite of the front desk, I spot an ATM. I withdraw five hundred dollars. Even for a suite, that should be enough. I mean, are they really going to charge more than a thousand dollars a night?

As I make my way down the hall to the suite, my heart thumps. Each step makes my insides throb, the flesh between my legs becoming slicker and hotter.

God, I’m acting like one of Pavlov’s dogs. What am I, a nympho?

I’m only here to give Whiskey the money to cover the half the room. There’s not going to be any second screwing because I have plans—Pascal’s Promotion Plan.

My subconscious doesn’t buy it. It whispers what I want is more than one night with him. So I’m not the nympho here, it’s my subconscious. But it’s been deprived. The orgasms I had before Whiskey were nice little bangs. He gave me nuclear explosions.

When I arrive at the room, I see the door propped open.

Did he think I’d come back? If so, that’s awfully confident of him. Not that I could blame him after the number of times I came in his arms.

My cheeks warm, I push it in and call out, “Whiskey?”

A few rapid, thick-soled steps hit the floor. I flip my hair over my shoulder and paste on a bright smile, ready to face him. He might’ve been slightly irritated I left without a goodbye, but I’m back. Sooner than I expected, too.

A middle-aged woman in a white uniform comes out.

I blink, deflating like a punctured soccer ball. Housekeeping.

“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you?”

“Sorry to bother you.” I clear my throat. “I’m looking for the guest in this room…?”

“He checked out.”

Already? Don’t suites come with late checkouts? “Did he leave a message?”

“I didn’t see anything here. But you should check with the front desk.”

Right. A great suggestion. I shouldn’t bother this woman while she’s trying to do her job. “Thanks for your help.”

I get inside an elevator, going down toward the lobby. I tap the shiny floor gently with one foot. Damn it. I didn’t think he’d check out so quickly. If I had a room like that, I’d linger. Take a nice hot soak in the huge sunken tub I saw in the bathroom.

But it’s really for the best, I tell myself. The more you linger, the more you talk, the more trouble you get into. Every legal drama has the attorney hero telling everyone to shut up. Hell, you can’t even talk to your spouse if you’re going through a divorce. This is the universe trying to protect me.

Now, if I can just convince my heart…