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“At least it’s nice,” I mutter.
“I’m excited to stay here too,” Mirdza says.
“And they may have been awake, but they don’t own it now,” Grigoriy says.
When we walk through the door, a man in a tuxedo walks briskly our way. I’m busy looking at the stunning frescoes, but he recognizes Aleksandr. “Your rooms are ready, sir. The Palace and Noble suites are arranged for you and Mister Khilkov, and the Lobanov Royal Suite is reserved for His Majesty, Alexei Romanov.” His mouth is twitching like he’s desperate to smile.
“It’s not like he asked you to call him that,” I say. “If you think it’s funny, just call him Alexei.”
The man’s eyes widen, and he swivels and drops into a bow. “I’m so sorry, madam. I didn’t find any part of this humorous.” He straightens. “It will be the singular pleasure of my life to serve the rightful heir to the Romanov throne.”
Oh. Weird. “Okay.”
“You’ll be staying in the Lobanov Royal Suite with His Majesty?”
Staying in the same room? I can’t help spluttering a bit. “Certainly not. We haven’t even had our first date yet.”
The man’s brows draw together sharply. “I have just the three suites reserved.” He coughs. “I’ll—let me get back to you.”
“It’s fine,” Mirdza says.
“Excuse me?” Is she my sister or some kind of pimp?
“The rooms are suites,” Mirdza hisses. “There are lots of places to sleep—it’s like having a little apartment in each one. Calm down.”
“Oh.” The guys would probably insist on having us at least close to where they’re sleeping for safety anyway. “Then, yes, that’s fine.”
“You will not require separate accommodations?” The man’s quite intense for a hotel employee.
“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“Right this way, then.” Several porters materialize to take our bags.
“I can carry mine.” I clutch the handle, bringing it closer to my body. I’m a little uncomfortable with all the people trying to pry my things away. It’s not like my stuff is super nice, but I have no idea how I’d go about replacing things while I’m in St. Petersburg.
“It’s my job,” the porter next to me says in Latvian.
“You speak Latvian?” I’m surprised.
“We all speak at least four languages.” He smiles. “It’s a requirement to work at the Four Seasons St. Petersburg.”
For the porters? Really?
I have no idea why, but knowing my porter speaks several languages makes me think he’s less likely to steal my things. I doubt anyone with education and culture really wants a pair of heels that have been reglued on the left heel twice or a makeup bag full of half-used stuff from the convenience store. I finally surrender it with just one longing glance.
With our stuff magically being taken to where it goes, we’re free to eat immediately.
“Reservations have been made for you at all four of our finest onsite restaurants,” the man in the tux says. I notice that his badge says he’s the concierge. “If you would like to make a selection, I can show you the way. If none of them suit, we can certainly find you a table anywhere else you’d like, and transportation to it.”
“How can you do that?” I ask.
“All fine restaurants reserve a few tables for VIPs,” he explains.
VIPs.
Very important persons. Until today, the only time that would have been used to describe me would have been if it meant very irritating person. Or maybe very impatient person. Actually, the most likely descriptor would have been very improper person.
And now I’m dating the lost Romanov heir. The VIP of VIPs.
