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Morning dawns too bright and too early.
I lay splayed in the center of my massive five-star bed and try to forget the dream I just had. Unfortunately, it’s too damn similar to what actually happened last night.
And that shit was pretty unforgettable.
After coming in last night, I’d washed my face and gone straight to bed, lest Rhett see my light on and get any ideas about continuing what we started on the rooftop. For once, Logical Liz had taken the reigns and put a stop to any further mistakes that might come about by being alone in the same bedroom for too long with Rhett.
I reluctantly roll out of bed. As much as I’d like to return to unconsciousness, where my hidden fantasies can play out with zero real-world consequences, if I don’t leave now I might risk running into Rhett in the living room. Or in the kitchen. Or in one of the many long dark hallways.
God, why does a suite have to have so many different choices for forbidden activities to play out in? And just about any of them would be more comfortable than that rooftop.
I dress quickly and flee the hotel room.
When exactly did I start acting like a horny college student? I can’t even remember the last time I had sex in a semi-public area.
Oh right, it was with Steve in his van which took me about two months of dating to realize was his full-time home.
I have the absolute worst taste in men.
Unfortunately I can hardly distract myself from my Rhett issue by focusing on work, a surefire solution in the past. The situation here in Chicago went from bad to terrible yesterday and there’s really nothing I can do about it.
In light of all this, there’s only one thing left to do: fall back on really bad habits. Since I still at least have some qualms about being seen at the bar at seven AM, I head toward the smoker’s patio and hope there’s someone out there I can bum one off of.
The hotel is eerily empty, all the eminent guests of last night’s banquet still sleeping off a fun night before the conference gets going today at ten. I doubt I’ll make any of the talks. It’s a small upside; now that my cover is blown I don’t have to pretend like I give a shit about technology.
I cross my fingers and push open the door behind the restaurant leading to the outside patio.
As it turns out there is someone sitting on a lawn chair.
Unfortunately Marie Alencar wouldn’t lend me a cigarette if I was about to go before a firing squad.
Her scowl is immediate, curling across her face like the smoke from her fingertips.
“Can’t you take a hint?” she snaps irritably, tossing aside the Kindle she was reading from.
I hold up both hands, a barrier between us. “I come in peace. Or, actually, I don’t come in any way at all. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
I sigh. “Not really. This would be something right out of my playbook. But honestly I was just looking for a cigarette. I can leave if you’d like.”
“I would,” Marie says instantly.
I can’t stop the chuckle that escapes me. “Sorry,” I say at the look she gives me. “It’s just I suddenly get why you don’t have Sloane managing your money.”
“And why’s that?”
“You’re too similar,” I say. “You’d either be best friends or at each other’s throats constantly.”
“Sloane Westing and I don’t have a single thing in common.”
I shrug. “Two powerful women working in a male-dominated field? Dedicated your lives to your businesses?” Before she can interrupt, I add, “Even if you don’t agree with that I call bullshit if you don’t agree you both rock the hell out of a pantsuit.”
Marie’s face is unreadable as she studies me. Then, beyond all hope, the faintest of smiles traces her lips. “Well, Paul did say you were good.”
“Good enough to get a cigarette from you?”
