I should go home, but I tell myself he deserves to be paid for the half the room. So that’s the only reason I trot toward the spotless marble toward the front desk when the elevator opens.
A uniformed clerk smiles at me, her golden name tag embossed with MEL. “Good afternoon. Welcome to the Aylster Hotel. How may I help you?”
“Hi. I’m looking for a message that one of your guests might have left for me.” I give her the room number.
She taps a few things into her computer. “What’s your name?”
“Pascal Snyder. But he wouldn’t have left a message under that name. He calls me, um, Skittles.”
She looks up, then her gaze drops for a fraction of a second to my less-than-fresh, slightly wrinkled dress.
I squirm. Her expression doesn’t change, but she isn’t an idiot. She knows exactly what Whiskey and I were doing in the suite. This is a hotel. We didn’t get a room to pray together.
I straighten my shoulders and stiffen my spine. “Like the candy,” I add.
“Of course. Just one moment, please.”
She slips into the back office. I wait, drumming my fingers on the cool, smooth countertop. Even though I didn’t give him anything except for the fifty dollars this morning, he probably left me something. Curie’s usually right about men, and like she said, he probably wants to see me again. He would also predict—just as he predicted what I needed in bed—that I’d regret sneaking out.
Mel returns. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing for you. Not under either name.”
My shoulders sag, and something between regret and chagrin dulls the fluttering butterflies in my belly. “I see.” I think rapidly. I don’t want to wave a white flag. Not yet. “Do you mind letting me know his name?”
Her composure finally cracks. “Excuse me?”
“His full name. I…didn’t catch it.” I flush, knowing how this sounds. “I want to get in touch with him.”
The professional mask returns, but her eyes flicker. I don’t need to be a psychic to read her thoughts: Wow, what a stalker fail.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Miss Snyder.”
I grasp for the most persuasive argument I can think of. “You know I was up there with him.”
“Yes, I gathered that.” Her smile says, Congratulations, ho. “But if he didn’t tell you who he is, I’m afraid there’s really nothing we can do. For security reasons, we cannot give out a guest’s personal data without a warrant.”
Oh for Pete’s sake. She’s just doing her job, but I hate it that she’s doing it so irritatingly well. The firm expression on her face says she’s not changing her mind until a new ring forms around Uranus.
I try a different tack. “I just want to give him some money for the room. I owe him half the amount.”
“If he wants to be reimbursed”—she doesn’t say further, but she’s thinking it—“I’m sure he’ll contact you.” Underneath her smooth voice is a mix of amusement and a tinge of derision. Must be the training. How to Smile Hospitably But Still Be Bitchy 101.
I spot two security guards who… Did they just put their hands on their weapons? The last thing I need is getting beaten up then tossed in jail for stealing the information off her workstation, so I nod with a graciousness I don’t feel. “Thanks for your help.”
“My pleasure.”
I turn around and leave, my shoulders threatening to slouch. No, no. I stand tall, doing my best to pretend I’m not feeling a bit of disappointment. It’s better that I don’t know who he is or have a way to contact him. Definitely. For the best.
If I tell myself that a hundred times, I’ll start to believe it for real, even as a small part of me wishes I could get in touch with him so we could explore…that thing we were going to have after my promotion.
Chapter Seven
Court
Tony’s new place is huge. Not that the penthouse he had before was small, but the new mansion could be converted into a boutique hotel.
Unlike some of the overpriced places in the area, his doesn’t have a pool. Instead, it has a shallow water garden. Ivy isn’t the best swimmer, and has a problematic history with water.
I tip the Uber driver, who seems a little awed, and get out. Hope he doesn’t get distracted and hit something on his way back. That little cherub statue over there probably costs more than what he makes in a year.