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But alone was better—so much better—than being in a miserable relationship with someone like Harper’s dad. She shuddered just to think of Jay and how long she’d spent under his thumb, clinging to the stupid, naïve idea that she could change him.
That he’d change.
That he’d love her enough to start treating her right.
Another yawn threatened; she bit it back, returned her hands to the elegant handles of the room service trolley and continued to push it forward. At the entrance to the suite, she pressed the doorbell, and waited.
When she’d first starting working at the hotel, she’d found this kind of thing almost paralyzingly awful. The hotel hosted some of the biggest celebrities in the world. It was not unusual for her to bring a room service cart up and find an Oscar winner in a bathrobe, or a bestselling singer clicking their fingers for the food to be brought in. She’d been petrified! But very quickly, she’d become used to it. She’d come to realise that for all the veneer and glamour that came with wealth and success, these were actually just people, with messy kitchen tables and unwashed dishes in the sink, cell phone chargers strung over coffee tables and the TV running in the background.
Normal people who needed expensive food at all hours of the day or night—and that was her job.
To bring food, lay it out and then leave. Invisible, professional, silent.
She waited for the door to open and was just about to press the button again when one side opened inwards, revealing a man in a button down shirt and trousers. Bare feet. Hair short cropped and dark brown, eyes even darker. Handsome—strikingly so—and somehow a little overwhelming. Features chiseled, lips flattened in a line of disapproval. Disapproval. Of her?
“Yes?” He had an accent, and his voice was gruff.
Cross?
Was it possible this was some kind of game of ding-dong-ditch? That he wasn’t expecting her? But, no. There was no way anyone had pranked him with a room service order. It wasn’t possible. Guest privacy was an important tenet of the hotel—in-room services could only be requested from a phone line in the corresponding room.
“Room service,” she reminded him, eyes dropping to the glass of red wine in his hand.
He looked at the trolley as if seeing it for the first time, then nodded a little jerkily. “Right. Come in.”
He gestured into the room. As she walked past him, she caught a hint of his cologne. She couldn’t identify any of the flavour notes but it smelled expensive, just like he looked. Just like she knew this room was. One night here cost more than a month’s rent for most people.
And while it was a very beautiful, spacious hotel suite, with stunning views of the city she loved so much, she couldn’t imagine anyone being content to waste that kind of money on a place to sleep.
Then again, he was probably entertaining. There was enough food on the trolley for multiple people, and a full thousand dollar scotch bottle with four cut-crystal tumblers.
“Where would you like this, sir?”
The man—not a celebrity, though undoubtedly some kind of highflyer—was in the kitchen now, one hip propped against the counter, his eyes resting on Skye’s face.
“Here’s fine.” He gestured to the benchtop.
She frowned. “All of it?”
His eyes moved to the trolley and he grimaced. “Did I order all that?”
“I presume so.”
He winced. “Va bene. Sure. All of it.” He finished the red wine. “Start with the scotch.”
She had been about to lift the pizza off the tray but instead switched to the alcohol, carrying it straight to the man and placing it in front of him, before retrieving four glasses.
“I just need one,” he muttered. “Unless you’d care to join me?”
Her eyes widened. She’d been hit on by guests before. It was a bit of an occupational hazard, and she’d always been able to handle herself in those situations. It was usually harmless flirtation, men who were used to calling the shots in their lives thinking a bit of harmless fun with a hotel staffer would idle away a bit of time.
Skye intentionally downplayed her looks when she came to work, wearing minimal make up and scraping her loose, honey blonde hair back into a tight braid, but nothing could hide the fact she had the kind of face women envied and men stared at—with high cheekbones, wide-set crystal blue eyes, naturally pouting lips, and clear, flawless skin. While she’d personally always hated how curvaceous she was, she knew that her hourglass figure was something men seemed to fantasise about, so she kept the stuffy work shirts buttoned all the way up to her neckline, and opted for a skirt rather than trousers, which might have drawn attention to her rounded bottom.
What Skye had never realised though was that downplaying her looks was a bit like trying to dull a star with a permanent marker: it just wasn’t possible. So, she’d become practiced at the art of deflection, at polite demurral, resisting without being rude.
But this didn’t feel like she was being hit on.
It felt like he was offering her a drink because he was…lonely.
