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His mind is made up.
Too bad for him, so is mine.
When the damn thing chimes again, I scowl and pick it back up. Thankfully, with Ty back at the helm as my messaging partner, all the bad juju in the air melts away.
Ty: I’m going to pick you up from your apartment in 15 minutes.
Me: What? You said you were going to give me a hint, not a heart attack.
Ty: That is the hint. Be ready.
A giggle jumps from my throat, and I make a snap decision that instead of trying to be organized and pack specific outfits for specific days, I grab my biggest suitcase from my closet and just start tossing anything and everything inside.
It’s not precise, but I’d say the odds are high I’m not going to be needing a whole lot in the clothing department anyway. By the time I’m zipping it up, my phone announces another text.
Ty: 5 minutes
Me: Are you texting and driving? That’s very unsafe.
Ty: Only when I’m at a stop light. PS: 2 minutes.
Shit! I squeal and grip the handle of my suitcase, dragging it off my bed and down the hallway until I pull it to a stop beside the door.
With the time ticking down at a rapid-fire pace, I grab my purse, run into the bathroom, and quickly freshen myself up with some lipstick, blush, and mascara. By the time I finish up with my hair, my phone chimes again, and it’s Ty letting me know he’s here.
Ty: Let the week of being bad commence.
My mind fixates on two words—being bad.
Yes, please. After another push of my buttons from my dad, the rebellious side of Rachel Rose is all in.
Ty holds the door key above the sensor, and the light turns green while a little click notifies that the lock has disengaged. He pushes the door open and grins down at me as he steps out of the way for me to walk inside.
His big plans? A week at the famous Carlyle Hotel in Manhattan.
“Let me be the first to welcome you to our spring break,” he says behind me, and I hear the wheels of my suitcase being dragged into the foyer area.
Yes, foyer area. Of a freaking hotel suite.
“This is quite the spring break, Professor,” I say through a giggle and walk into the lavish space. Ty didn’t just book a simple hotel room for our secret spring break getaway. No way. He booked a flipping suite at one of the most expensive hotels in New York.
And it does not disappoint.
There’s a full kitchen with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances. A living room has a plush sofa and a large flat-screen TV. The bedroom includes a king-sized bed and bedding that looks so luxurious it’s probably been used for magazine photos.
And the bathroom? Well, it’s highlighted by a massive, glass-encased walk-in shower and a white porcelain soaking tub.
This is the kind of hotel suite celebrities hide out in under aliases like Betty Boop.
“Can I interest you in a glass of champagne?” he calls from the kitchen, and a quiet laugh escapes my throat.
Damn, these plans of his are certainly something. I have to admit, when he avoided telling me them so much, I half expected him to find a crusty hotel on the side of the highway and call it a day.
I walk back out of the bedroom and find him standing at the marble island, expertly popping the cork from a bottle of champagne that I can only assume comes complimentary for fancy digs like this.
He pours the bubbly liquid into two flute stem glasses and holds one out toward me. It’s then that I notice, on the center of the kitchen island, sits a charcuterie tray of cheeses and crackers and fruit and cured meats and nuts.
I reach out to grab a grape and pop it into my mouth before taking a long sip of my champagne.
“So,” he says with a secret smile. “How did I do? Have I exceeded your expectations?”
I shrug one nonchalant shoulder. “That depends.”
He quirks one curious brow. “On what, exactly?”
“On what you’re going to do with me now that you have me here.”
A devil-may-care smile kisses his mouth, and it reminds me so much of the man I met all those weeks ago at Orchid. The one who caught my eye. The one whom I picked for a very specific and temporary purpose but found it hard to stick with the plan. The one who nearly tempted me into forgetting what that challenge card said and seeing where the night took us.
“Everything,” he says, and his voice has that raspy edge that I love so much.
“Everything?” I repeat with a little smile. “That sounds promising, but in order to achieve everything, you’re going to have to catch me first.”
“Catch you?” he questions and sets down his glass of champagne, but I don’t give him a verbal response. Instead, a giggle escapes my throat as I make a beeline for the bedroom.
