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Yesterday I was told to never set foot here again.
“Oh no,” I say, and this time I really mean it.
I have to get out of here. I have to leave before Max sees me. I don’t know how the heck I got here, but I’m not waiting around for him to call the police.
I do not need to be arrested.
No.
No, I don’t.
That won’t help my future job applicationsat all.
I rush across the room and fling open the door of the wardrobe. Thank goodness—inside is a row of suits and a line of white shirts. I grab an Oxford and stuff my arms through the sleeves.
My fingers shake as I struggle to shove the buttons through the holes.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.
I can’t let Max find me here.
There’s no way it was him who gave me this whisker burn and that love bite, which means I brought a random man to a bedroom I’ve never seen before and had sexual relations with him in Max’s home.
“Oh nooooo.”
I take one last look around the room. My clothes aren’t here. My phone isn’t here. My purse? Not here. Which means I’ll be walking across town barefoot unless I can convince a stranger to buy me a bus ticket.
I clench my fists and give myself a quick pep talk. All I have to do is sneak out of this bedroom, make my way downstairs without being seen, and hurry out the front door. That’s all.
No problem.
There’s a knock at the bedroom door. I jump then look around for a place to hide.
In the wardrobe? Under the bed? Behind the curtains?
“Madame?” a woman calls through the door.
Is she talking to me?
I stare wide-eyed at the door.
Does she already know I’m here? Did she see me come in last night?
“Madame, are you awake? I have breakfast.”
I can’t move. Instead I stand as still as a stone as the bedroom door slowly swings open.
I take a step back. A small, gray-haired woman dressed in a navy sheath dress, carrying a silver tray, steps into the room.
The tray holds a small silver coffee pot, a delicate china cup and saucer, a plate of fresh strawberries sprinkled with sugar, and a thick golden waffle topped with a dollop of cream. There’s silverware, a creamy linen napkin, and a small silver vase with baby’s breath crowding around a miniature white rose.
The scent of coffee, waffle, and strawberries and cream knocks into me.
How does this woman know I was craving waffles? How does she know this is my favorite breakfast ever?
“Who ... who ...?” I’ve lost the ability to speak.
She doesn’t even look at me. Instead she strides to the bed and slides the tray onto the nightstand.
