Again.
I circle the block, my fingernails digging into the steering wheel, and force each breath through the growing knot of irritation in my chest. I’ve officially reached that special level of tired where every minor inconvenience feels like a personal affront.
I’m finally about to enter the driveway when I have to yield to traffic coming from the right.
And here it comes.
The obnoxious red car Mr. Celebrity rented.
Our eyes lock, and I resist the urge to roll mine.
Of course he's here. I booked this hotel to becloseto the players. In hindsight, maybe it wasn't such a bright idea after all.
I pull up behind him, and valets in pristine uniforms roll their luggage carts toward us at the same time.
One gives me a nod. “Good evening, ma’am. Welcome to the Four Seasons Hotel.”
“Thank you.” I offer him what feels like my first smile in days. Crawling out of the car, I stretch my back.
“Do you have any luggage I can help you with?”
I roll my shoulders. “Yes, one suitcase in the trunk.”
He retrieves my bag and hands me a valet card. “We’ll take care of your car. Call this number when you need it brought around. Your suitcase will be delivered to your room shortly.”
“Thank you.” I hand him a tip and head toward the entrance.
As I approach the door, I can’t help but glance at Mr. Celebrity. He insists on carrying his large bag himself.
No surprise there. It’s probably filled with whatever expensive gear professional athletes insist on babysitting.
A doorman opens the large glass door, and the moment I step inside, Mr. Celebrity melts away from my mind.
The lobby is breathtaking—high ceilings, golden lighting, polished stone floors, and fresh flowers bursting from vases in towering arrangements. A soft piano track plays from somewhere further in, wrapping the whole atmosphere in sheer luxury.
I drift toward the check-in desk where a smartly dressed receptionist awaits. His name tag says Kurt.
“Good evening,” he says with a dazzling smile. “Do you have a reservation with us?”
“I do.” I pull out my ID. “It should be under Harper Donnelly.”
I place my ID on the counter, and he starts typing on his keyboard.
As I wait, a surge of warm, expensive cologne drifts to me from behind, and I grimace. Mr. Celebrity is back in my mind again.
A woman named Berta is serving him, and judging by the way her eyelashes flutter and her cheeks redden, I'd say she's over the moon.
I almost snort when he flashes an annoyingly charming smile that makes poor Berta cling to the desk just to keep herself from collapsing.
“Oh,” Kurt says, a hint of worry in his tone. “There seems to be a problem. My apologies. Please give me a minute.”
He leans toward Berta, who looks like she’s about to murder him for interrupting a joke Mr. Celebrity was just telling her.
Her eyebrows furrow, and she glances back at Mr. Celebrity. “One moment,” she says to him before following Kurt to the back.
I sigh and lean on the counter.
Yeah, I should have seen this coming. Of course check-in wouldn’t be smooth. This day has lasted a full year already, and I’m ready to ring in the next one.
