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The woman made some clicking sounds with her tongue. “Oh no, I see what happened.”
“Yes?”
“Another order went to the Ritz. Very similar to yours. They must have mixed the bags. Oh, no. This is not good.”
The next five minutes passed in frenzied conversation as the woman on the phone deliberated over our options. The kitchen had closed, and she didn’t have more tikka masala to send. I could have Indian curry or coconut korma, but I really didn’t want either one. She put me on hold so she could speak to the front desk at the Ritz, and it took all my willpower not to dip my naan in the sauce and give it a try. But I was a wimp, and I didn’t want a burned esophagus when I finally got to meet my future sweetheart tomorrow. I wanted my voice to sound like velvet, not a frog with bronchitis.
“Can you go down to the front desk?” the woman asked hurriedly, jumping back on the line and startling me.
“Yes, thank you!” Relief poured through me. I just wanted mild sauce with chunks of delicious tandoori chicken, and my grumbling stomach wanted it now. “When should I go? In ten minutes?”
“No, now. The other delivery, a, uh...Mr. Axl Rose, will bring your dinner to the front desk, and you can trade for the correct bags.”
Um,ew. Did this woman really not know it was a fake name? No one would use a fake name here except maybe a bored rich kid. “What if they ate some?” I asked. Or spit in it. Or dipped a finger in the sauce and licked it? Or ate half of my naan because they were starving like I was. Have I mentioned the late hour?
The line was silent for a minute, as if the woman hadn’t considered this. “We apologize profusely for the mix-up and would like to refund the cost of your meal. If you would at least return your dinner to the front desk, we will send a complimentary meal tomorrow.”
“I won’t be here tomorrow, but thank you for offering.” It wasn’t the restaurant’s fault anyway; I blamed the guy from my meal-delivery app. In my opinion, Torch of India shouldn’t have to lose anything for this. But I was still out a dinner, so I was glad to get my money back. “I’ll return the other person’s meal.”
“Thank you. And again, I apologize.”
I forgave her again and hung up the phone. It was a little annoying that I had to run the food down when I wasn’t even going to eat the other potentially-tampered-with food. Or maybe...
Peering in the bag, I removed the naan and rice and set them on my desk. I could give the other person their chicken and eat a dinner of plain rice and extra carbs. Garlic was a strong flavor. It wouldn’t be total misery.
I snagged my room key and went for the elevator. What kind of gross person would eat food that had been sent to someone else’s room? It might be worth sticking around downstairs for a minute to catch a glimpse of—ding!The elevator doors opened, and a man in a blue baseball cap and a bomber jacket moved all the way to the side to make room. He faced the wall and looked at his phone.
I stepped in, and he moved even closer to the wall as if I’d brought a wave of stench in with me that he was trying to evade. The food smell was strong but heavenly and definitely didn’t classify as astench. He hugged the side of the elevator as if one stray breath from me would kill him stone dead. Should I politely inform him that I didn’t have smallpox?
The lobby button was lit up, and I leaned against the other wall, glaring at him from behind. I mean, I didn’t even have to be discreet. He was giving me his backside completely. It was almost offensive how turned away he was. Like, what was I going to do? Smile too hard at him? Attempt a friendly conversation?
Then I noticed the brown paper bag in his hand, a white receipt hanging off the side. This was the man I was heading to the front desk to do the covert swap with. Bingo. It totally made sense that he’d want his spicy chicken back after it had been delivered to a stranger’s room. Some guys would eat anything. I mean,anything.I dropped a hot dog on the floor at a Giants game a few years ago, and my date actually picked it up and ate it after I refused to. He ate a ballpark hotdog from the sticky bleacher floor. Gag.
Needless to say, that was our first and final date, and it didn’t end in a kiss.
My food was within arm’s reach, and that brought a smile to my face. Now we didn’t even need to leave the elevator. “Hey, I think you—”
“Nope,” he said quickly, his voice low and gruff. It immediately bugged me. I’m sorry, what? He had no idea what I’d been about to say.
I cleared my throat. “No really, I think you—”
“I saidnope.”
My mouth hung open. This jerk wasn’t even allowing me to get a full sentence out. For all he knew, I was about to say,I think you’re on fire. Or even,I think you have a big, furry spider crawling up your back.I could be saving his life right now from an aggressive brown recluse.
The elevator dinged, and my neck heated with irritation. “You have my dinner!” I shouted as he pivoted toward the opening doors.
I must have surprised him with my screech, because he turned abruptly and looked at me, his gorgeous blue gaze falling to the identical brown paper bag in my hand. Then he looked up, and the elevator basically fell through the ground and out the other side of the earth, taking my breath with it.
The man in the elevator, staring at me and holding my dinner, was none other thanPeople’shottest man alive and my forever celebrity crush: Rhett Myers.
Chapter Two
This was a dream, right?Or more accurately anightmare. I wasnotactually meeting my celebrity crush in offensively bright-pink sweats and zero makeup.
Rhett stood in the elevator doorway, smoothly recovering from his surprise and pointing to my bag of ultra-spiced chicken. “That’s my spicy masala?”
My dry mouth wouldn’t formulate words. I shook myself. This was it, the moment I’d prepared for. I discreetly pinched my forearm, and I was still here, so it was happening.
