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Kristen
Why I still scroll Instagram is a mystery to me. Using the app for platform building is one thing, but casually scrolling it is a whole other beast. Early Saturday morning, I’m busy minding my own business in my suite after taking a shower when a friend sends me the link to a beauty product she knows I love that has been sold out for weeks. I click the link and it takes me to Insta, and right after that, I tap something I didn’t intend to tap and end up on Annabelle’s page.TheAnnabelle that Jenna had to endure when she first started dating Beckett, and the one I’m now enduring in my off period with Phillip.
I am not a fan of this woman but (shoot me now), I’m intrigued by the earrings she’s wearing in the photo I’m looking at, so I tap the post. For what, I have no earthly idea. After that, I’m one scroll away from being sucked into the vortex.
Minutes later, I land on her story (I know, I can’t even with myself either) that features a video of her with Phillip at dinner last night. They’re laughing and kissing, and her hands are all over him.
I wasn’t convinced I wanted anything more to do with Phillip, and now I know for sure I don’t because now I know he really is full of shit rather than just thinking he is.
Regardless of not wanting him anymore, it’s not nice to see this video. This is what I get for scrolling Instagram. I should delete the damn app from my phone. Marie Kondo the hell out of it since it’s not sparking any joy for me.
I’m this close to texting Phillip exactly what I think of his bullshit when someone knocks on the door of my suite.
Placing my cell down, I tighten the towel around me and pad to the door. A woman with a smile that is far too big for 6:30 a.m. delivers the coffee I ordered before my shower. I’ve almost closed the door behind me when I realize she’s forgotten the sugar I requested, and as much as I shouldn’t have the sugar, I desperately need it this morning. Just half a teaspoon. It’s my one guilty pleasure I allow myself every morning. And since I always ask the hotels I stay in to remove all sugar from my suite, I don’t have any here.
“Excuse me,” I call out to her as she walks back toward the elevators. “I asked for sugar too.”
When she doesn’t stop, I notice her adjusting the AirPods in her ears.
Damn it.
The towel I’m wearing barely covers my ass. Running after the woman while wearing it isn’t appealing, but neither is coffee without sugar.
I blame Instagram for the bad choice I make to go after her. If it wasn’t for that fucking app distracting me with stories I really don’t want to see, I wouldn’t step out into the hallway and accidentally lock myself out of my suite.
“Shit!” I stare at the locked door, my sugar quickly forgotten. “Shit, shit,shit!”
“Problem?”
I jump at the sound of Bradford’s husky voice behind me. Spinning, I come face-to-face with his frosty gaze. “Why are you here?” God, does he have some special power that allows him to materialize all over the place?
Bradford has perfected the look that saysYou’re really asking me that? He gives me that look now. “My suite is next door to yours.” His gaze drops to my body. “The question is why are you out here in a towel?”
My arm immediately comes up and around my towel to hold it in place. The very last thing I need is for it to drop. “I’ve locked myself out of my room. Do you think you could go downstairs and ask for a replacement key card?” I hate asking him for help but I’m kind of out of options here. If I’d had a say in who got the suite next to me, I would have gone as low as choosing Hannibal Lecter in preference to Bradford.
He gives me more of that look. “How do you think that will go down? I’m quite sure they’ll just hand over a room key for you if I ask them politely enough.”
I will kill him once I get this sorted.
“It’s no wonder you’re marrying Cecelia Aniston.” The ice queen who we all know is only marrying him for the power it will give her. “I can’t imagine any other woman wanting to marry an arrogant ass like you.”
“That wasn’t me being arrogant, Kristen, but I can be if that’s your preference.”
He’s right about that. I’ve seen arrogance on him more than once and this is far from it.
Also, he’s right that I won’t get a replacement key by sending him in my place.
Shit, shit,shit.
While my brain tries to kick into gear, Bradford instructs, “Come with me.” Then, without waiting for my response, he turns and strides toward the suite next to mine. This is classic Bradford Black behavior: making a decision and expecting others to fall into line. And since Hannibal Lecter is nowhere to be seen, I follow him.
He unlocks his door and opens it. Standing with his back to it, he motions for me to enter. “You can call downstairs and ask them to bring a key up to you.”
Oh, how I wish I didn’t have to rely on him. Or be inside his suite. Or walk so close to him that I can smell that woodsy scent of his that brings back too many memories.
I take in the state of his suite, begrudgingly admiring the tidiness. It’s almost as if no one is staying here. He’s packed most of his belongings away. The only personal item I can see is a book on the couch.
I want to sigh at the beauty of it. If only all men were as ordered as this.
