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“Unfortunately, I am the only concierge undertaking such requests at this time.” Suspicion runs rampant when he adds, “I also think it would be best for you to collect thepackagesyourself. I wasn’t given much to go off, so I can’t be confident in my selections.”
Packages?That escalated quickly.
“All right.” Don’t ask me why I scan the room for the second time. I have no clue what I am seeking. I’m just telling you how it is. “I’ll be right down.”
James sounds pleased. “Wonderful. See you shortly.”
After hanging up, I scribble a note to River to let him know where I am, toss on the only other article of clothing I left prison with—a bulky jacket rarely used in this climate—and then exit my suite with more spring in my step than usual.
I curse my stupidity to hell when I enter the elevator. It only goes one way when you don’t scan your key. To the lobby. Since Knox only handed me cash and condoms, I’ll have to visit the check-in counter for a key before I can return to my floor.
When I approach the concierge desk, a man with platinum-blond hair and a huge grin greets me with a head bob.
“James?” I ask, shocked. He looks heaps younger than his voice.
“James is outside…assistinga guest with a special order.” A red hue hits the stranger’s cheeks. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
Straightening up, I reply, “He called saying I had a package to collect.”
While scrolling a finger down a thick wad of papers, the concierge asks, “Floor number?”
“Thirty-seven,” I reply after quickly pausing to recall the markings outside the elevator doors.
His hue deepens, stretching to his ears, before he stops scrolling the list of guest names and returns his eyes to mine. “Yes, well, they shouldn’t be too much longer.” He arches over his podium-like desk before whispering in a sneering tone, “Most gents wait in their room fortheirpackageto arrive.”
“James asked me to come down because he wasn’t confident with his selections.”
His shock is as elevated as mine was only minutes ago. “Selections?” I swear this man’s face is the color of a tomato. “As in more than one?”
I lift my chin before nudging my head to multiple glossy bags on a counter behind him. “Are you sure they’re not thepackagesI’m meant to collect?” I say “packages” with the same high squawk everyone else has used tonight.
The concierge coughs, scoffs, then reluctantly checks the tags on the designer-looking bags when my arched brow announces I’m not accepting a scoff as an answer.
“Oh…” His eyes are back on me in an instant. They’re full of silent apologies. “Laken Howell?”
His flustered expression reminds me of the giggled greetings I received whenever I attended parties during my final year of high school. It gives me a boost in confidence I haven’t experienced in almost a decade. “The one and only.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” he gabbers out while pulling the packages down and rounding the counter at the speed of light. “When you asked for James and said you hadapackage to collect, I misunderstood.” He hands me the glossy bags that are heavier than they look. “I profusely apologize for the confusion.”
“It’s fine. Truly.” Once the bags are distributed evenly between both hands, I say, “Though I’d appreciate your assistance in getting me back to my room. I left my key on the nightstand.”
That’s a lie, but the concierge is clueless. “Certainly.”
As his promise leaves his mouth, a commotion outside the hotel silences the lobby. A woman is shouting, and although her voice is cultured and smooth, the language she uses to express herself isn’t.
She swears like a sailor on shore leave.
“I’ll just… Ah…” The concierge is flustered again, but this time, it is directed outside instead of at me. “Lesley is a whizz at room key consignments.” He waves his hand at the check-in counter. “If you wouldn’t mind…” He issues his gratitude with a smile when I move toward the short queue before all his plea can leave his mouth.
“Good evening. How can I help you?” asks the stunning brunette operating the counter a short time later.
I wait for Lesley’s eyes to reach my face before announcing, “I locked myself out of my room.” When I realize I didn’t catch the concierge’s name, I murmur, “Jamessaid you could assist me.”
I don’t know if her blush is because I busted her staring at my crotch or from me bringing James into the conversation again.
His name alone brings out an array of emotions from his colleagues.
Lesley’s embarrassment switches her attitude from friendly to professional in less than two seconds. “Certainly. What is your room number?”
