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“You had my lipstick on your mouth. Berry flavored…” she murmurs, before falling into a loud snore and dribbling on my shirt.
My arm is dead by the time we start our descent into JFK.
Chapter 9
Ava
“Welcome to The Songbird,”the receptionist beams as we approach the check-in desk. “So nice to see you again, Mr. Grant. How was your flight?”
“Good, thank you,” Jet says.
“It was better than I expected.” I glance around the opulent white and cream marble lobby. “I slept from take-off until landing.”
I turn back and grin at the receptionist. My nerves have been easing since the moment I woke up as we pulled up to the gate at JFK airport. The flight is little more than a hazy memory. Now I can enjoy being here. I’ve never been to New York before. We’re staying in Manhattan, so hopefully I’ll get a chance to explore.
“You’re in our newly designed penthouse, the Oriole.” The receptionist taps away into her computer.
I look at Jet. “We’re in the same room?”
“It’s a duplex, twin floor,” the receptionist says. “Five and a half thousand square feet. But I canchange—”
“No, it’s fine. We live together in London…” I crane my neck to look at the giant crystal chandelier. This hotel is stunning; I can’t believe I’m actually here.
Jet continues talking to the receptionist as a bellman comes over and loads our suitcases onto a cart.
“These will be waiting for you in your room, Mr. Grant,” he comments as he places my silver suitcase beside Jet’s matching black one.
“My suitcase is the same as yours,” I say.
We look like we’re on honeymoon withhisandhersluggage.
Jet inclines his head toward me, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “They’re the best. You want your things inside protected, don’t you?”
I watch the bellman disappear with my suitcase that’s filled with my lingerie. Except my waterlily panties. I needed to wear those on the flight. I’ll hand-wash them for the way home. It’s silly, but they’re my lucky ones.
“Yes, I do. Thank you.”
Jet motions to me to place my hands on the device the receptionist is holding out.
“We use your fingerprint to access the penthouses,” she explains, scanning my finger. “Okay. You’re all set. Would you like me to show you to your room?”
Jet shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary, thank you.”
He leads me away from the desk and toward the elevators. We ride up in one alone, then step out into abeautiful hallway, the walls covered in gilt-framed oil paintings.
“I need to make some calls,” Jet says as he scans us into our room.
I step inside as he holds the door open for me and fight not to let my mouth hit the floor.
It’s like walking onto the set ofBridgerton. The walls are painted cream, with ornate gold cornicing adorning them. And the decor is luxurious—velvet chairs, shining gilded side tables, Parisian rugs, thick drapes at the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s an opulent renaissance-styled heaven.
“Callaghan is staying here too. He’ll be dining downstairs this evening. You’ll need an evening gown.”
Jet walks past me, taking his suit jacket off and folding it over the back of a velvet chair.
“Is it a dinner meeting?”
He walks back over to me, taking out his wallet.
