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When he mimics my silent stare, waiting for a reply, I stammer, “Y-you’re welcome.”
My nostrils flare when I step toward the elevator panel so I can tap my room key over the security scanner. His smell is too intoxicating to ignore. It is a much sought-after scent after the night I’ve had.
I love Ravenshoe. It will always be my hometown, but Mavericks has seen better days. Ever since Maggie left to run the bed-and-breakfast the band purchased her as thanks for the years she dedicated to their success, it hasn’t been the same. The patrons are loud and obnoxious, and if it weren’t for Rise Up making an impromptu appearance like they do anytime they’re home, one hundred percent of them would have reeked of BO.
It was one disastrous pickup line after another, which is sad. Tonight is my last night of freedom for weeks, and Jenni and Emily made out it is easy to secure a noncommittal night of lust with no strings attached.
Tonight’s duds are what I get for accepting advice from taken women. They haven’t been single in years, and it showed earlier when they tried to steer me through the horrifying maze of single life.
Don’t misunderstand. I love being single. I just miss the connection you can’t achieve when you go it alone.
After a second lick of lips to loosen up my words, I ask the stranger, “What floor do you require?”
“Ah…”
He spins to face the unlit panel, wafting up more of his delicious scent, before he attempts to select floor thirty-seven. I say attempt because if you don’t scan your hotel room card across the security box, you can’t access any floor in this hotel except the lobby.
When I announce that to the mystery stranger, he murmurs, “Oh… ah... I left my keycard in my room.” Something must cross my face that I didn’t mean to show as he quickly attempts to settle my worry. “It’s cool, though. My brother is asleep in my room, so he’ll let me in.”
“That could occur if we were traveling to the same floor.”
He sounds more relieved than annoyed when asking, “You’re not going to the thirty-seventh floor?”
Strands of red locks swish my shoulders when I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”
My heart beats for an entirely different reason when I remember Knox warning me to stay away from men seeking the thirty-seventh floor.
They’re not standard hotel guests.
Most rarely stay longer than an hour.
“Are you an overnight guest at this hotel? Or can you book rooms on the thirty-seventh floor by the hour as well?”
I’m not usually so bold, but something about this man has me acting how I usually would when interacting with a friend. It could be that I spent the past several hours surrounded by people I’ve known for years, but it seems more than that.
He appears oblivious to who I am, which is more endearing than frustrating.
The stranger’s pupils dilate before he stammers, “I’m not staying in any ofthoserooms.”
His flabbergasted response is cute, and it has me eager to continue to rile him.
He deserves to be on the back foot as much as I am since his gorgeous face and panty-wetting body swiped my smarts out from beneath me in under a second.
When I arch a brow like I don’t believe him, he crosses his heart while pledging, “I swear on my brother’s lifethatisn’t why I’m here.”
He grins shyly.My god.I didn’t think he could get more handsome, but his dimples have made me a liar. They’re not as deep as Noah’s, but just as attractive.
After shifting his bags from one hand to the next, he murmurs, “Though I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t contemplate going down that route if I learn that’s why you’re here.”
I don’t know whether his insinuation should shock or intrigue me. My ginger locks, pasty-white skin, and innocent facial features have me accused of being the preacher’s daughter more often than a pop star, so you can be assured this is the first time anyone has mistaken me for a sex worker.
My high tone reveals I’m more playful than annoyed when I ask, “You think I’m a prostitute?”
“No. I just…” My heart whacks my ribcage three times before he hooks his thumb to the elevator doors still clamped shut despite the car not moving, as neither of us selected a floor. “That guy was your pimp, right?”
“Who?” My eyes bulge when the truth smacks into me. Then humor takes over. “Hawke is a bodyguard,” I gabber out through a fit of laughter.
My giggles halt when the stranger stares at me with shock blazing through his captivating eyes. I hate that the daftness his presence caused may have blown my cover. “Notmybodyguard. He works for a friend of mine.”
