Page 8 of Don't Tell

I turn it.

A view of a lobby from inside a service corridor. The doorway is a black rectangle. The lobby beyond it is sketched in light. The two figures crossing it are turned away from her, and youunderstand without being told that the woman who drew this watched them from the dark and was not seen.

I turn it again.

This one is of a woman. An older woman, I assume. Her mother, perhaps, or grandmother. Her hands are clasped in front of her. Some of the features are incomplete and inconsistent, as if she couldn’t quite remember what this person looked like.

I glance at Suzanne again. Her mother must have passed. I know I should understand her grief, given recent circumstances, but I don’t allow myself to. I don’t want to.

I close the sketchbook.

The art world has always been in my periphery, for as long as I can recall. I have looked at thousands of portfolios. I have signed several artists over the last couple of years and paid off a number of them when things didn’t work out. I know what I’m holding.

She is extraordinary.

I look up through the doorway at the woman asleep in my bed.

Who are you?

I don't have an answer. Her hair comes loose where it catches against the pillow, the line of her cheek, the duvet rising and falling at her shoulder — and my heart moves beneath my ribs.

I don't want her to leave… That is interesting.

I turn the sketchbook in my hands and watch her sleep. There's a lot I don’t know about her. She already has an unfair advantage over me since she has witnessed me at my most vulnerable. I need to even out the playing field somehow.

I doubt if Suzanne will ever let me get close enough to truly discover who she is underneath all that fire. Or maybe she will, and I’ll get burned. Nevertheless, I know for a fact that it will be quite a ride.

Suzanne starts to stir. She stretches, and her eyes open slowly. They dart around the room for a second before landing on my face, then my neck, then the book in my hands. She sits up and jumps out of bed.

“Careful.”

She ignores me. She marches right up to me and snatches the sketchbook from my hands. “You have no right.”

I cock my head. “Don’t I? You’ve seen me naked. We’re not even yet.”

“I didn’t ask to see you naked. You were sprawled out here for literally anyone to see.”

“And I didn’t ask to see your sketchbook. You really shouldn’t keep personal things so carelessly.”

She glares at me and starts tucking the sketchbook into her cart. I want to stop her. I want to say a smart thing to keep her here longer. It's about much more than the NDA. I want her. But I know I’ll have to bide my time.

I’ll have to let her go today. And maybe even a second time. But my patience can only last for so long, and I may never let her go.

I don’t say anything as she pushes her cart past me. Suzanne doesn’t even look at me. In a second, she’s gone from the room, and I hear the door close angrily.

There’s only one thing I can do now. I reach for the hotel landline and dial.

"Front desk. Put me through to Roger Tate. Housekeeping."

3.Suzanne

How dare he? Ugh…I can’t believe him.

My mind is still a bit cloudy from passing out. I was surprised to find myself in his bed. He didn’t let me hit the floor like every other guest would. I can deal with rude guests. I can handle dismissive guests. But him? I’m not even sure what category to file him under. This is uncharted territory for me. I haven’t met a man like him.

I don’t even think I understand him. It’s usually easy to get a read on the guests. For some reason, I can’t figure him out. He seems kind but wicked, rough but gentle, and serious yet playful.

I’m not quite sure what to make of that. One thing I know is that I need to get as far away from him as possible.