“I’m aware of its location,” I interrupted dryly. “I go there like five times a week, Jenny.”
She paused, and then resumed in her chirpy voice. “Wonderful! If you need direction or assistance, let us know and we will do all we can in our power to make sure your stay with us at Hotel Browning is comfortable and worry free –”
I hung up the phone.
Christ, they were getting faker by the day. I didn’t know why she was being extra fucking weird all of a sudden. Maybe she was going for Employee of the Month.
I grabbed my clutch for show. There was nothing in it. I didn’t have a wallet, didn’t have fucking ID, nothing. But it was pink and sparkly, and it matched the dress so…
I left the apartment and trudged to the elevator. Apathy choked me the entire way.
I was just a fucking number.
At least numero deux.
So stupid.
I entered the elevator and avoided staring at myself in the elevator mirrors. I didn’t need to see the fake princess staring back at me.
The elevator made a stop two floors down and an old man walked in, smiling brightly at me. “Oh, my luck!” he exclaimed, staring at my tits before finding my eyes. “Good afternoon, darling.”
Oh boy. I smiled weakly. “Afternoon.”
We went down a few more floors. I could feel the man’s eyes checking me out in the mirror. He was smiling in a creepy way.
“Are you part of the basement scenery?” he asked in a hushed tone, like I was special to be privy to such secret information.
“Yeah,” I told him. “I am.”
His face glowed. “Would I be able to find you?”
“Mhm.” I nodded with a cool smile. “You’ll find me in Nixon’s lap.”
His face instantly dropped.
With a toothy smile, I added, “He kidnapped me two years ago. I’ve been locked in this hotel ever since. If you ever want to let the authorities know, I’d deeply appreciate it.”
He quickly reached over to the panel and furiously pressed a button. His face was ten shades redder than it was seconds ago. The elevator stopped and the doors opened. I watched him hurry out on the random level like he was running for his life.
Yeah, this was the reaction I anticipated. Nothing ever changed. Nobody fucked with Nixon.
Oh, the power of fear.
I let out a short laugh. Because it was better than crying.
The doors started to close when a hand shot out, stopping them. My laugh died straightaway as the doors re-opened and my gaze connected to Flynn. He looked just as surprised to see me as I did, but he stepped in without skipping a beat.
“Vixen,” he greeted, that voice rich in charm.
My knees wobbled. What the fuck?
“Flynn,” I returned pleasantly.
The doors closed and this time I was staring at the mirrors like no one’s business. He was staring back too, a soft smile on his lips. I looked up at the camera in the top corner, wondering just how crisp the picture was. Would whoever was watching me notice how flushed my cheeks were getting?
Would they report it to Nixon?
Yeah, Sir, our infrared detected strong levels of heat. Her cheeks were apple red. Our analysts determine she was crushing hard.
Fuuuck my life.
“You look beautiful,” Flynn said softly.
When I looked back at him, his eyes were on my face, an appreciative expression adorned his.
“Thank you,” I said, smiling cordially. “You look…the same.”
Clearly, he possessed very little in his closet. His clothes were the exact same as yesterday. I wrinkled my nose, wondering if his hygiene left much to be desired. From this close, he smelled good, and his clothes weren’t wrinkled from overuse.
Chuckling, he uttered, “I have a few of the same pair of clothes. I don’t like shopping.”
“I never did, either.”
Cue silence.
I removed an imaginary piece of fluff on my shoulder, that cordial smile wobbling in its falsehood. Meanwhile, he continued looking like an Adonis, unperturbed by the awkward silence.
Why was the elevator still going? How long did it take to get to the ground level? This was unnatural.
“How’ve you been?” he then asked, breaking the silence as he turned his body to me.
I found myself turning too, until we were face to face. He was tall as Nixon, but God, that was where the similarities ended. Nixon was hard and sexy, and Flynn was soft and beautiful.
I swallowed when I detected the concern in his voice. “I’m okay, Flynn. I want to thank you for saving me.”
“I had to,” Flynn responded urgently. “I couldn’t keep my eyes off you, Vixen. I’m just glad I noticed the man when I did…”
“You did amazing.”
“Were you hurt?”
“No.”
“I was worried…”
The doors opened to the ground level. Neither of us turned just yet. He looked down at me like he had so much more to say, and I looked up at him like I wanted to hear it.
“You going to the basement?” he asked, extending his arm out to keep the doors from closing. “I can walk you there.”
“No,” I answered. “I’ve got a dinner reservation at the Bistro around the corner.”
He pressed his lips down hard for a moment. “With Nixon.” It wasn’t a question, but he looked at me for confirmation.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Right, well…after you, then.” He waved me out, and he even made that look gentlemanly.
I stepped out. We both walked to the end of the hallway. We stepped into the impressive marble foyer and looked at each other as we branched off in different directions.
“See you later, Vixen,” he murmured with a heated look.
My steps faltered. Shit.
He shouldn’t have looked at me like that. There went my knees again, wobbling. I swallowed and looked away from him.
I hurried to the restaurant, my eyes scanning the ceilings, catching notice of the cameras.
Sir, we noted she did not look back at him. I repeat, she did not look back at him. Crisis averted.
I puffed out a breath when I entered the Bistro. The young hostess immediately noticed me and hurried to catch up to my pace.
“Let me show you to your table,” she said breathlessly.
I shot her an annoyed look. “I know where it is, Beth. It’s the same fucking table.”
“I’m just doing my fucking job,” she gritted back under her breath, smiling at me in that fake friendly way.
I instantly slowed down and gave her an apologetic look. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“No problem.”
“Is he here?”
“He is.” She made a tense face.
I frowned, reading her expression. “Mood?”
“Uh, well…let’s just say everyone’s on their best behaviour.”
Oh, dear. I wondered what awaited me. Nixon could be an asshole when he was in a foul mood.
There was a private area with booths in the back of the restaurant. The booths were further apart than the normal placements. Nixon was seated in the far back, in our usual booth. The lights were already down, and a candle was lit in the centre of the table.
Funny that after two years my pulse still jumped when I saw him.
As I approached, I noticed very quickly how wrecked Nixon looked. His face had more lines than usual. He was staring down at the screen of his phone, reading with deep concentration.