“Yeah, me neither,” Susan says. “Honestly, I don’t know how she’s going to show her face around this week. I mean, everyone knows.”
Thank you, Susan, for pointing that out. As if I wasn’t worrying enough already. Susy is one of the most good-hearted people in our group, and if this is what she thinks of me… Anxiety twists in my stomach, and I fight hard to choke a sob in my throat. They can’t find out I’m in here, hiding and eavesdropping on everything they say.
“Serves her right,” Daria snaps. “Let’s go.”
Wheels roll on the floor, and the washroom door is pulled open.
“Speaking of Lana’s new relationship,” Susan says, her voice moving away. “I have it on good authority Christian Slade will come to the ceremony. He should arrive by Thursday or Fri—”
The door slams shut, and Susan’s voice gets cut off.
After they’ve left, I wait another ten minutes before coming out of the stall, in case they forgot something and bounced back in. When I exit, I’m half-stumbling and need to steady myself by bracing my arms on the marble sink. Their words hit me worse than if they’d taken turns punching me. They loathe me. Despise me. And I deserve every ounce of their hatred. Everything they said is true.
I take a hard, long stare in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, but I managed to keep the tears in. Still, my skin looks pasty, except for the bluish bags under my eyes. At this moment, I’d give anything to be anyone but myself. And I know just the person who can grant me that wish.
I storm out of the bathroom and head for the bar.
Archie is no longer at the counter, of course, but I need a little extra liquid courage before taking him up on his offer.
Not bothering to sit again, I wave at the bartender to attract his attention.
He comes my way at once. “You wanted something else?”
“A shot, please.”
The bartender eyes me slightly too long before asking, “Any preferences?”
“Whatever,” I say. “Make it strong.”
He nods and gets mixing.
When he puts a tiny glass in front of me five minutes later, I don’t even ask what’s in it. I raise the glass to my lips and tip my head backward, downing the liquid in one swallow. Vodka, mostly, with some lemon soda and sugar. The alcohol burns my throat and makes my eyes water. I do my best not to let it show, and drop the empty shot glass back on the counter.
An annoying smirk stamped on his lips, the bartender asks, “Another one?”
“No, thanks,” I say. “One is fine. Put it on room 452.”
I don’t wait for the bartender’s response, but head straight for the elevators. The best man is about to get lucky; the least he can do is buy me a drink first.
The ride up to the fourth floor is short enough to prevent any second-guessing, and in no time, I’m standing in front of room 452 knocking on the door.
Five
Summer
Archie opens the door a minute later without even asking who it is. His face barely registers surprise at finding me standing on his doorstep.
Bastard.
He hasn’t changed clothes, except that he is now wearing hotel slippers instead of sneakers. The new ensemble should be ridiculous, but the prick has never looked more handsome.
Arms crossed over his chest, he leans against the doorframe with a smug smile curling his lips. “What can I do for you?”
I don’t have the will to play cat and mouse, so I cut to the chase. “I’m ready to forget my name.”
Ice-blue eyes study me, x-raying me down to my core. Until, finally, Archie steps aside. “Come on in, then.”
I walk into the room, the door closing behind me with a loud click. This is it, I’m in. No turning back.
Archie is still studying me, and I can’t withstand the scrutiny. So, for lack of better alternatives, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.
This is the first time I’ve kissed someone with a beard, and it’s not what I expected. The hairs are soft and a bit ticklish, but leave the full lips underneath one hundred percent enjoyable.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Archie pulls back. “Are you drunk?” he asks, probably tasting the vodka on my lips.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I had one shot. You’re not taking advantage.”
I try to kiss him again, but he tilts his head backward and upward, away from me. Then he gently removes my arms from around his neck, and, still holding my hands, places our joined limbs between us like a barrier.
“Sorry,” he says. “Not how this is going to work.”
I frown, confused. “What? You have a no-kissing policy?”
If that’s the case, I’m leaving faster than the Roadrunner from Wile E. Coyote.
Beep Beep!
“Oh, no. We’re going to kiss,” Archie says, and I relax and tense at the same time. “Just not yet.”
“Why?”
“Something happened downstairs that made you so worked up you downed a shot and came up to my room half an hour after swearing you wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot pole.”
I hate that he can read me so well without even knowing me. “I’m entitled to change my mind.”
“So am I.”
“If you don’t want to do this anymore, I can just go.”
He shrugs. “I’m just not up for angry sex. Not that it doesn’t have its merits, but not tonight.”
My jaw drops. This guy is so arrogant, so full of himself, so—
“I want you to have a clear head before anything happens,” he adds, smoothing the tension. “That okay?”
I was about ready to get the hell outta here, but he’s pulled me back in.
“What do you propose?” I ask.
“How about a foot massage, to start?” he asks, and, eyeing my shoes, adds, “Those stilettos must be killing you.”
The heels are uncomfortable, but… “A foot massage?” I ask. “I thought we were going to do something a little more daring than that.”
Archie’s thumbs circle over my wrists, which he’s still holding. Letting me know everything this man does with his hands is daring. “I promise,” he says, his grin growing more wicked. “It will be the dirtiest foot massage you’ve ever had.”
That, I can believe.
With my mouth already a little dry, I nod.
“Let’s go outside. The night is warm, and I won’t even need to put on ambient sounds.”
He guides me across the room, then lets go of my hands to open the French doors on the other side. The balcony is a photocopy of mine: fifteen feet by ten, furnished with a table, two chairs, and two chaise lounges, all in brown plastic wicker.
Archie gestures to one of the recliners and I lie down on it, kicking my shoes off as soon as my feet leave the floor—gosh, these pumps are real killers. As I ease back on the cushions, the skirt of my black dress rides up my legs, showing a quantity of skin I’m not usually comfortable with. The fact doesn’t escape my host’s eyes, and he throws me a hungry look. Well, pal, you’re the one who wanted to waste time with stupid feet rubs. He turns the other chaise lounge at a ninety-degree angle to mine and sits on the edge, patting his thighs expectantly.