Making Up (Shacking Up 4)

“There’s nothing to feel bad about. I understand entirely.” He tips my chin up and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Let’s order dinner, so I can make you dessert.”

“Oh, I’d kill for some ice cream.”

“I meant that you would literally be my dessert, but I’m sure we can also get ice cream.”

“Right. Okay, well both of those things sound good, me being your dessert and the ice cream.”

Now that I’m no longer panicking, I’m hungry again. And maybe horny. Griffin puts on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts while he cancels our reservation and orders room service. Then he heads to the kitchen to get us something to drink. I want to raid the cupboards for a snack, like chips or crackers. I’d even eat those ramen noodles straight out of the package dry at this point, but I don’t want to be rude. I think throwing shoes at him and accusing him of being a cheater has put me over my rudeness limit for the night, maybe even the week.

Griffin retrieves a bottle of champagne from the fridge—it’s an apartment-sized one rather than the bar fridge one usually finds in a hotel—and a covered tray.

“What’s this?”

“Me being prepared in case we had time to come back here before dinner.” He lifts the stainless steel cover to reveal a cheese and fruit tray.

“Oh my God. That looks amazing.”

His smile would melt my panties, if I were wearing any. “Help yourself.” He uncorks the champagne and pours us each a glass while I pop a cheese cube in my mouth and force myself to chew before I swallow. There are little toothpicks with labels stuck in each cheese so we know what they are.

I carry the tray into the sitting area, and Griffin follows with the champagne.

“So you said you invest in hotel renovation projects, right? Is that how you get access to all of this?” I motion to the spread and pop a strawberry in my mouth. I’m trying not to shovel food in and ruin my appetite before dinner arrives.

“Pretty much. Basically I run logistics on whether a hotel property will be profitable.”

“That sounds numbery.” I’m snuggled into the corner of the couch, feet tucked under Griffin’s thigh. Only three buttons are done up on his shirt—yes, this is completely intentional—and I’m showing a decent amount of cleavage. I also had to roll the sleeves about four hundred times so I could have the use of my hands.

“It can be.”

I still don’t understand how he gets so many perks. “And what happens if a hotel is profitable?”

“It depends on the situation and how profitable the hotel is. Something can be profitable in the short-term, but long-term investment is what I’m generally looking for.”

“Have you ever invested in a hotel that’s tanked?” I imagine that would be scary, putting money into something that could fail. That’s sort of what my parents did with my sister and her education. They had all this money saved up for her, and she went to college, started three different programs, and dropped out of all of them. She ate all of their education savings, leaving me to pay my own way, which is the other reason it’s taken me so long to finish my degree. I managed to get a partial scholarship, but the rest I’m footing myself.

“A couple of times, yes, but I learn from my mistakes. Generally, the projects we take on are grounded in data that supports the investment. Enough about my job, it’s actually not all that riveting. Tell me what you want to do once you’re finished college.”

I shrug. “Mostly I want to travel. I figured working in hotel management would be a good way to do that. I love the event-planning side of things. If I can get a placement at one of the big chains and turn it into a job, then I can move around and see more of the world. Maybe even get out of the US at some point, spend some time in the islands, go overseas.”

We’re interrupted by a knock at the door. I feel awkward being dressed only in Griffin’s shirt as the concierge brings the food in, but he’s super professional, calling Griffin sir and arranging the plates on the table—there’s an actual dining area in this giant suite.

Once he’s gone, Griffin rearranges the chairs so we’re sitting beside each other. He’s ordered almost every appetizer on the menu because I said they all sounded good, so we stuff our faces—with manners—while we talk about travel and school.

Apparently he went to Harvard. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I laugh when he tells me what year he graduated with his MBA. “I wasn’t even in high school yet.”

He steals a fry from my plate. “What were you like in high school?”