Page 4 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

MooreToExplore.

It’s a play on words because my last name is Moore. Catchy, right?

But considering this job had a strict NDA clause about the review being 100% anonymous, I can’t do that.

I am a travel journalist. Self-employed most of the time. Social media influencer all of the time.

But money has been a little slow recently so I am doing what any freelancer does in their dry spells—taking what I can get.

The traveling part I have figured out. I’ve spent the last few years bouncing around the country and getting farther from home whenever a job or cheap flight lets me.

The financially stable part? Still very much a work in progress.

As I turn back toward the bathroom, I spot my little burgundy bucket-list book on the floor beside my suitcase.

The leather cover is warped from being shoved into more carry-ons than I can count. I started it before MooreToExplore was even a thing, and lately checking things off has become almost as addictive as adding new ones.

Maybe Stay in a ridiculously expensive executive suite deserves a spot.

Then again, I’m already here. That would be cheating.

I leave the book where it is and step into the bathroom.

Then I strip.

Shirt. Shorts. Bra. Panties.

I leave everything in a pile on the bathroom floor beside the vanity and grab one of the fluffy white bath towels from the shelf, mostly because it looks ridiculously soft.

It is.

It’s also ridiculously small.

I wrap it around myself and the ends barely meet.

“Seriously?”

For what this place charges a night, you’d think they could spring for enough cotton to cover an average-sized woman.

I drop it back onto the vanity.

Mental note. Luxury towels should actually fit the people paying for them.

I turn on the shower and immediately the marble room fills with a scent that smells like lavender and luxury.

Then I catch sight of myself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

And stop.

Because apparently nothing can kill the fantasy of being the kind of woman who belongs in a penthouse suite faster than seeing yourself naked under very expensive lighting.

There is a lot of me.

Soft. Curvy. Pale in all the places my full-coverage swimsuit usually hides. My breasts are full and heavy, my waist curves in before everything curves right back out again at my hips. My thighs touch. My stomach is soft instead of flat, with a little heart-shaped birthmark beside my navel that I've always kind of liked.

Individually, none of it is terrible.

Together?