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Drew smelled it before he saw anything.

Something sweet and heavy, thick enough to taste, and it didn’t belong in here. His room smelled like hotel soap and the cologne he’d put on before the ceremony. He knew it from somewhere, but he couldn’t place it for shit.

The only light came from the bathroom, where the door was cracked open. He took one step in, and his foot caught on something. He pitched forward and slapped a hand against the wall. Behind him, the door swung shut and stopped against whatever it was with a soft thump. He didn’t turn around.

“Hey, baby,” somebody said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He squinted. Somebody was on his bed, on his side of it, lying back with one knee up, her hair all over the place and something white hanging open around her.

For one stupid second, his heart jumped. Nicole. She’d come. She’d gotten on a plane after all, and that was why she hadn’t picked up. But the voice was wrong. The hair was wrong, too light even in the dark. And Nicole had never smelled like that a day in her life.

Rapture. That was it. He’d smelled that shit on his clothes and in his truck for a week at a time this fall.

“Phallon?”

She laughed, low and pleased with herself. “Surprise.”

He dragged both hands down his face and looked again. She was still there. The fuck? He’d drunk enough to be seeing things. That had to be it. Except she sat up, and the light from the bathroom caught the shirt she had on. White. Starched. His. The one he’d worn to one of those dinners Jed kept dragging him to. It hung wide open, and she didn’t have a damn thing on under it.

“What the fuck, Phallon.” It came out slurred. He tried again. “How the fuck did you get in here?”

“Does it matter?” She swung her legs off the bed. “I came to surprise you, silly.”

“In New York?”

“You’re in New York, aren’t you?”

She came across the room slow, swinging her hips, letting the shirt fall open however it wanted. Drew put his back against the wall, because the wall wasn’t moving and nothing else in this room would hold still. Then her arms were around his neck, and that perfume was right up in his face, and his stomach rolled over.

He pulled her arms off.

She put them back.

“Quit.” He pulled them off again, harder. “Phallon. Fucking quit it.”

“You don’t mean that.” She slid her hands up his chest instead and hooked her fingers in his collar. “You had a bad night. I watched the whole thing. I saw your face when they called his name.” She pushed her bottom lip out. “My poor baby.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He shoved off the wall to get around her, and the floor tilted under him. He caught the edge of the dresser and hung on until the room came back. His mouth was watering, and not in a good way. If he didn’t get this crazy bitch out of here, he was going to throw up all over his own shoes.

The phone. He’d call the front desk and have somebody come up here and drag her out by the hair if that was what it took.

He made it to the nightstand, picked up the receiver, and jabbed zero. Nothing. No dial tone, no operator, nothing. He hung up, picked it back up, and jabbed it again. Dead.

“It doesn’t work,” Phallon said behind him.

He turned around too fast and had to grab the headboard to keep his balance. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Nobody needs to call anybody.” She came toward him again, smiling. “Nobody’s going to bother us tonight.”

“Get away from me.”

“Who were you even going to call? Her?” Her smile got meaner. “Where’s your little girlfriend tonight, Drew? Huh? Biggest night of your life, and she couldn’t even get on a plane for you.” She spread her arms and let the shirt hang. “I did. I came all the way up here. For you.”

That one landed, and it stuck. Nicole was sick. He knew she was sick. But she’d said she’d be watching, and he’d called, and she hadn’t picked up, and here was Phallon standing in his room saying the shit he’d been trying not to think since he hung up that phone.

“You don’t know a goddamn thing about her.”