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The man is waiting, and I’m impolite, but frankly, I don’t want to go back to my room and start doing with him what I’ve already done myself.
“You know what? I’m sure you’re right. It’s probably misplaced. Let’s do this. I’ll go back and try to find it. And if I’m still unsuccessful, I’ll call the concierge desk and ask for you. Okay?”
He searches my eyes.
“All right. Just let me know.”
I give him a small smile.
“I will.”
With that, the man spins around and heads back.
I pin a vacant stare on his shoulders before jolting out of my paralysis and following the same trail to the hotel.
Maybe Kai has seen my phone.
That random thought makes me turn left in the lobby and stop in front of the concierge desk again.
The first man I talked to saunters toward me, ready to reiterate what his colleague just said to me.
I flick my hand up.
“It’s not about my phone. Have you seen Kai Walker this morning?”
I’m hoping Kai is not asleep.
I’d hate to knock on his door, wake him, and ask for my phone, looking like I needed a pretext to show up wearing almost nothing as if asking for his dick.
The man ponders an answer when his gaze gets snagged by something or someone outside.
“Isn’t that him?” he asks, pointing to the front of the hotel with a subtle flick of his chin and a neutral gaze.
I swing my gaze in that direction just as Kai exits the lobby. I don’t know if he’s noticed me.
If he has, he surely ignores me, which is fine. I don’t want to see him either.
Honestly, at this point, I’m more curious about his whereabouts than if he knows something about my phone.
I can’t tear my gaze away from him.
In fact, I walk away from the front desk, stop not far from the exit, and peer through the glass wall, mostly from behind a potted plant, not that anyone’s looking in my direction.
Demeaning, I know, but my curiosity gets the best of me.
He looks hot and fresh. Rested. As if he’s had a good night’s sleep.
He wears light-gray––almost white––destroyed jeans that fit him perfectly, a soft V-neck, fitted T-shirt that clings to his chest, and a blue-gray shirt on top, completely open, the sleeves cuffed up.
He looks stunning, reminding me of the man I ran into that first fateful night when my car almost died on me.
I’m not saying he doesn’t wear cool clothes all the time–his suits are to die for––but he’s put some effort into his appearance this morning.
Where is he going? And why isn’t he asleep? Why am I not in my bed?
Well, that’s why. He is part of the reason. Like everybody else in his entourage.
Speaking of his entourage. One of his friends might show up at any moment now. Maybe they have something on the schedule, and I’m not invited.
