Making Up (Shacking Up 4)

The suite is empty when I arrive, but someone has clearly been here. It smells like the room has been doused in perfume—except it’s not the kind of scent that makes your eyes water. There’s a rainbow trail of rose petals leading to the bed, which is covered with more petals.

I bend to pick one up, rubbing the satiny petal between my fingers. They’re definitely real. Griffin had to have murdered hundreds of roses to make this happen. On every table surface is an artfully arranged vase of flowers, not just roses this time, but every kind imaginable, including orchids, which could explain how fragrant it is in here.

I wonder if he had someone come up here and do this for him, and if it was planned ahead of time, or after he pissed me off. If it’s the latter, it’s almost unnerving how easy it is for him to get what he wants, when he wants it. I wonder if he ever has to wait for anything, or if people bend over backward for him because of who he is.

A fresh fruit and cheese platter sits on the table and beside it is a bucket with a bottle. I try not to be dazzled by the flowers and the glamour, but it’s a challenge.

I pick up the bottle of champagne chilling on ice. I’m about to open it instead of waiting for Griffin, when I decide to cross-check the label with the hotel room service menu. I almost choke on my tongue when I see that the bottle costs a thousand dollars.

Okay, I might be able to understand shoes that cost that much, maybe even a dress if I planned to wear it to every single nice function for the next ten years, but something that I’m going to drink over the span of a few hours seems insane. That’s my grocery budget for three months.

I put the champagne back and check the fridge in the kitchen. Thankfully Griffin has a few of the wine coolers I like. Those only cost two bucks a bottle, so I feel okay about drinking them.

I pace the suite and chug the first cooler while I wait for Griffin.

Mills Hotel mogul.

Again, I have to wonder what the hell he’s doing with me. It’s not that I think I’m a bad catch. I get asked out all the time. I have nice friends. I’m fun to be around. But he should be dating some posh debutante whose family is equally as rich, not some college student whose mom is a retired casino dealer and now travels with my truck driver father.

If we were animals in the wild, I wouldn’t even qualify as potential prey. We’d be in totally separate food chains. He’s at the top, and I’m closer to the amoebas at the bottom, like maybe a salamander, or one of those sea creatures that lives on the floor of the ocean and never comes up for air. I shouldn’t be on his radar, let alone sharing his bed with him.

I’ve just popped the top on my second cooler when the door to the suite opens and in walks Griffin, looking very much like the rich, powerful man he is in his expensive suit and shiny black shoes. It’s hard not to look at him differently, which is maybe why he never came right out and told me who he was.

“We need to talk.”

He unbuttons his suit jacket and shrugs out of it, draping it over a chair, then goes to work on his cufflinks. I bet the contents of my entire apartment that they’re real gold. “I apologize for my behavior earlier. I feel I handled that touchy punk with as much tact as I could, but I should’ve let you deal with him since I know you’re very capable. I also should’ve conducted myself more appropriately in the supply closet.”

I swear he’s almost smirking at the last part. It frustrates me that despite how annoyed I still am with him, his words make everything below the waist clench up. “You’re right, you should’ve let me deal with Landon, and the supply closet is the least romantic place in the universe to have an orgasm,” I croak and clear my throat, because although it lacked in romance, it was still hot. “But that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” He rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie. His unaffected front irritates me further.

I set my cooler on the table, making sure I use a coaster so I don’t ruin the wood finish, and cross over to where the champagne is chilling. I yank it free from the ice. “Do you know how much this bottle costs?”

He glances up, eyes shifting to the bottle I’m holding as if it’s a severed head, and not delicious, extraordinarily expensive champagne. He shrugs and focuses on rolling his other sleeve. Goddammit, why do his forearms have to be so defined and sexy? Especially when I’m busy being disturbed by his willingness to throw away money on frivolous things when I have to budget so carefully to make sure all my bills are paid. It upsets a balance that already seemed out of whack in the first place. Or maybe it’s my insecurities making it that way. Regardless, I’m having trouble reconciling this new knowledge.