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She points down the corridor. “He went through to the bar once he checked in. He’s probably still in there.”
“Right,” I say, keeping my fake grin in place. “That’s fantastic. Great news.”
“Room 151,” she tells me, scanning my room key card and handing it over. “The elevator is over there.”
She points along the same damn corridor as the bar and I get an instant buzz. I’m going to have to walk past the interior windows. My adrenaline has put paid to any sleepiness as I scoot away from the reception desk. I chide myself for being so careless. I should have made more effort than jeans, a cami and a furry coat. Damnit. I jab at the up button as fast as I can on the elevator and dive on in when it pings, relieved to be out of sight.
I take a few deep breaths when I reach the room, in case I cross paths with my anonymous somno client too early, but when the key light flashes green and I swing the door open, there is no sign of him. No luggage, no used tea or coffee supplies. Just a big, perfectly made up king-size bed with a desk, a huge wall-mounted TV, and a spacious ensuite. I dump my bag next to the bed and flop down on the mattress in relief. So, what do I do from here?
I could race back to my place and re-dress myself like a prom queen, but the proposal wanted a sleeping beauty, not a gothic supermodel. A tired sleeping beauty, too exhausted to wake up when a guy starts fucking her in the middle of the night.
I walk over to the mirror to examine how I look, and tired definitely fits the bill. Really fucking tired, despite the adrenaline rush.
But that’s a good thing… now isn’t the time for foundation or contouring. My entertainer side clicks into place, and I’m Holly Reynolds. An exhausted woman, desperate to get a bit of dinner and go to bed as soon as she possibly can.
I put my long black hair up in a messy bun, pulling some strands free on purpose, and it works. I’m looking even more exhausted. Poor Holly Reynolds would happily sleep for a week in such a comfy bed as the one in this room. But Holly needs to get something to eat first. Sensible girl.
Then I spot the room-service menu on the desk and confusion hits. What if he’s not in the bar, waiting, watching? What if eating in the bar isn’t part of the deal? My client never mentioned it in the proposal. Fuck, it’s tempting to just pick up the phone and lie back and wait for food to come to me. I’m on the fence, and I’m fucking buzzing. And I know why I’m buzzing. I’m buzzing because Holly wants to go down there. Holly wants to be seen in the flesh by the anonymous beast that’s going to fuck her in her sleep.
I laugh to myself. Of course I’m going down for dinner.
I unpack my toiletries to stake my claim on the room before I lie my satin slip nightdress on the bed, ready for sleep time, and then curse myself again for wearing just a cami. I decide to keep my coat on for now and I leave for the bar. I’m on full alert, but nobody crosses my path as I ride the elevator back down. It makes the tidal wave of noise seem all the more dramatic when the doors ping open at the bottom.
The bar is busy and bustling with both drinkers and diners – a huge variety. Families, groups of friends, people in suits, women out drinking together. There are lots of couples, and some single seated people dotted around, too. Some random guys standing at the bar. Plenty of action all around me as I scope out a table for myself, checking out the guys to see if anyone is looking my way. But no one does.
Luckily, a table has just become available – right amidst the hustle and bustle of the room.
Prime position.
I take a seat and kick my legs back, giving a massive yawn before taking a look through the menu. My senses are prickling – the tide of conversations around me bristling with white noise. A loud male laugh gives me a zip up my spine, and I glance around the place. Ian could be any number of the guys in here. He might not even be in here… but the thought that he is gives me a thrill.
I let out another yawn, and rub my tired eyes, then zone back in on the menu. I’ll go for a staple. Cottage pie and a side of fries. Carbs galore. I go to the bar to order, resisting the urge to order a large black coffee. No caffeine for me this evening.
I’m hypersensitive to the eyes on me as I smile at the guy behind the counter.
“Diet Coke, please,” I say, “and a cottage pie with a side of fries, table fourteen.”
“Great,” he replies, and I give another yawn.
“Sorry, I’m absolutely exhausted. I’m going to be out like a light when I hit my room.”
He smiles. “Busy day?”
“Busy week. Feels like I haven’t slept in years.”
I wonder if Ian can hear me. My voice is loud on purpose, making sure I cut it over the hustle and bustle.
“Wait,” I say, realising my error. “Diet Coke won’t cut it. Scratch that. A large glass of house red, please. No! Make it a bottle!”
He laughs. “Sure thing,” and taps in my order. “There’s a thirty-minute wait for food. I’ll bring your wine over.”
Back at my table, I pick up a coaster and tap it on the table as I glance around, pretending to look at the décor, the pictures of game birds on the wall, the old books high up on shelves, while I check out every guy in the room. I pin a few as likely, two guys in suits, drinking wine and chatting. Either of those could be Ian. So could the guy at the bar who has glanced my way twice. He’s brown-haired and bulky, dressed in a smart blue shirt and black trousers.
“Your wine,” a voice says and I fucking jump. Jesus.
“Sorry,” the barman says, “you were miles away.”
There is no un-corking of the bottle or tasting the wine. The bottle doesn’t even have a cork.
