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“Holy shit.”
Her training must have been impeccable because she didn’t bat an eye at my trash mouth. “The master bath is through this door.”
A gilded floral motif complemented mosaic floors. Gold-plated fixtures surrounded the shower and tub. This shit was Disney princess fancy, and not cottage-core village princess either. This was screwed-the-beast, get-the-library, and inherit-the-castle next-level-shit.
“The wet bar is fully stocked, and if there’s anything particular you require, we can have it delivered.”
I was on overload. How much did a place like this cost? Who could afford this? New York was beaucoup bucks to begin with. This suite-penthouse-tower-whatever-you-called-it was straight-up insane.
“Is there anything else you require?”
I peeled my gaze away from the beveled moldings and jumped. There were three of them—the woman, the man with my luggage, and another man in a tux, his gloved hands folded at his waist. Where were they coming from?
“Um… I think I’m good.” Literally feeling like Kevin McCallister, I fumbled through my pockets and pulled out a crumpled Dunkin receipt. “Hold on. Don’t go anywhere.” I rushed to dig out a few dollars from my purse and handed each of them a tip.
The woman nodded and exited the suite while the bellhop carried my luggage to the master bedroom and then left. The other guy with the white gloves grinned.
I looked behind me because I wasn’t sure if he was waiting for someone or something else to appear. So I smiled—super cheesy with a lot of teeth to hide my awkwardness and nerves.
“Can I make you a drink, Ms. Meyers?”
Was this guy from room service? I was so confused. “What are you serving?”
A drink sounded phenomenal, but it was barely past ten. Was this a New York thing? Maybe he meant coffee or some sort of brunch cocktail.
“I can offer water, Pellegrino or non-sparkling, French pressed coffee or espresso, or perhaps something stronger. Mr. Davenport suggested margaritas on the rocks. I have Casa Dragones Blanco, per his request. He mentioned it was a favorite of yours.”
This guy had done his research. “And, who are you?”
“I’m your majordomo.”
My brain instantly filled with images of Barbie, going straight to Ken’s mojo dojo casa house. “And a majordomo is a…?”
“Butler, ma’am. I’ll be your steward during your stay. I attend to any of your personal needs.”
Oh, my God, I had a real Jeeves. “What do I call you?”
“You may address me as Mr. Purcell, if it pleases you, ma’am.”
“Okay, Mr. Purcell. First rule, I’m not a big fan of ma’am. You can call me Rayne or even hey you. But please don’t feel the need to be so formal. ”
“As you wish. Have you decided on a beverage, madam?”
Tricky. I didn’t have the same adverse reaction to madam as I did to ma’am, so I let it slide. “Sure. I’ll go with option C, and let’s make it a double, Percy.”
His cheek twitched, but he didn’t correct me for shortening his name.
I watched as he got to work at the wet bar, uncorking the tequila and setting out several limes. Keeping his gloves on, he sliced the fruit and pressed it onto a glass juicer. Holy crap he was making the margarita from scratch—totally James Bond. No bottled mix or anything.
I approached the bar. “Do you do this for everyone, Percy?”
He smirked again, but remained focused on his work. “Everyone who stays in the penthouse.”
Did he sleep here too? “So… If I needed something, like a sandwich or a soft pretzel…”
“I’d see to it.” He poured the juice into a shaker over ice and added the alcohol and a few other ingredients. Using only two fingers, he set out a margarita glass, holding it only by the stem and poured. “Would you like your cocktail in the sitting room?”
I laughed, sort of outside of myself. “Sure.”
