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I shrug my shoulders. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Paul. I’m here to look at phones.”
“Then you won’t care that I got you bumped off the Alencars’ table this evening?”
I don’t let Mother’s rage reach my own face. I raise an eyebrow. “I doubt I’ll be there anyway,” I say with an added yawn. “Could you maybe tell your assistant to stop holding up the line?”
Clark has attracted the ire of half a dozen hotel employees and most of the line. I don’t expect Paul to sort anything out, but I’m still surprised to see that Clark doesn’t even call out to him when security pulls him away. The three of us watch him go, and when I turn to Paul, he just shrugs and says, “Worth a shot.” Then he pulls out his phone and begins an overly animated phone call, ignoring us completely.
With Clark getting tossed onto the street, the line starts to move again and before long Liz and I are riding the elevator upstairs.
“Paul Morgan, huh?” she says at last.
I puff out a burst of air and shrug. “What can I say? He’s an asshole.”
“Your mother hates him.”
“He was conjured up in some level of hell as a worthy opponent for her,” I say.
The elevator doors open on our floor and we drag our personal bags down to the suite. It’s a nice enough room; Mother hasn’t gone all out. Still, it has two bedrooms, separate bathrooms, a living room and kitchen, and decent views of Chicago. I’ve stayed in better rooms at this very hotel (think hot tub beside a baby grand), but Liz seems very taken with it, opening all the doors and marveling at the amount of space. Her reaction is weirdly endearing, and remarkably different from my usual companions. The last girl I was with, a Russian model named Ashtanovka, would have walked right out of a place like this.
I’m tempted to make some snarky remark, but I’m tired and also after fighting with Paul, I don’t really feel like fighting any more with Liz. I want to sleep on the couch for a few hours until I have enough energy to drag myself to my bed and then sleep there until tomorrow. I flop down on it and it welcomes me readily. It’s so comfortable, plush and inviting, like I might sink directly into it if I nestle deep enough…
“So the dinner is at 6:30. What’s the plan?”
I groan with my eyes closed. Liz hasn’t stayed distracted for long. Just ten more minutes, I want to say. Instead, I mutter something unintelligible and roll over. Her hand nudges my leg. An image of that same hand curling around my arm and pulling it against a full chest threatens to make me hard. That’s enough to make me open my eyes.
Liz is sitting at the end of the couch looking as awake as if she’d gotten a full ten hours in a luxury hotel instead of huddled for warmth in a hick’s shack. She’s also looking at me expectantly, as if I haven’t made it very clear what my role in this weekend is going to be.
“What?” I ask blearily. “What plan?”
“Uh, did you not just hear Paul say that we got bumped off the Alencars’ table? Your mother is going to blow a gasket when she hears that. We have to do something.”
“And didn’t you also hear Paul say that we’re not going to get the account?” I ask. “So who cares?”
Liz’s mouth flaps. “Are you serious?”
“Pretty serious,” I say, burying my head in my arms.
“Of course he’s going to say that!” she says. “But the whole point— Wait, so that wasn’t just a comeback earlier? You actually don’t plan on going to the dinner tonight?”
Urgh. We had a couple hours of peace in the car, but now we’re right back to it. If Liz could just drop this whole “married to her job” thing, she’d be a lot hotter. I turn onto my back, stretch, and then look up into Liz’s disapproving eyes.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve made it pretty clear about how I feel about this weekend,” I say. I cross my arms behind my head. “So scheme your way onto the Alencars’ table, but don’t expect me on your arm. I’m not getting paid enough to sit through dinner with Paul Morgan and two vapid billionaires.”
“Now that’s the pot calling the kettle if I’ve ever heard it,” she says.
“I’m not vapid,” I say. “I’m apathetic. There’s a difference.”
“So you’re just fully committed to being cut off then, huh?”
“It’s a foregone conclusion,” I say. “So why bother or stress or care?”
“Don’t you want to fight?” Liz asks incredulously. “You’re just going to roll over like a dog and let your life explode?”
I push myself up into a sitting position. I definitely don’t care about being cut off. But I also don’t like being called names. “Do you want to fight?” I ask. “Because this shouldn’t be news at this point.”
“I just thought that once we got here… I mean come on. Don’t you want to stick it to Paul Morgan? Don’t you want to prove your mother wrong?”
Yeah, sure. If it were possible. But Mother never admits to being wrong, and as much as everyone seems to love Liz, I can’t imagine her being able to outsmart Paul, the guy who can give even my mother a run for her money.
