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4
Was it possible to even consider this? That was the question that plagued my mind the whole drive over to the hotel. I’d limped into the hotel behind him, declining to be carried because that was just too much. Once, okay, he’d surprised me, but now he’d put it out there that he wanted toPygmalionme into some kind of woman who could take on the world.
It turned out my bags were packed and waiting by the front desk for me. The staff ran fast, holding all of them out to me as soon as I came through the door.
Zeke spoke to them in French before turning back to me.
“You have a passport in the safe, right?”
Yes, as it turned out, I did. “How did you think of that?” “People put their passports in the safes in their rooms. We all do that. It’s not rocket science. They cleaned up your room because Laura Allard told them to. But they didn’t get the passport, so let’s go do that now and get it out.” He gave some more instructions, and suddenly, my bags were being brought outside. I watched them go a little bit like I was watching a television program I’d just stumbled upon. There was a distanceto everything, the sense that nothing was real, even though it was happening.
Maybe my adrenaline was crashing.
I followed Zeke and the manager, who was really talking fast, into the elevator and headed back upstairs to the room I’d exited that morning before sunrise. A guest entered on the next floor before we continued on to the fourteenth floor where my room had been. Who had picked this hotel for us? This wasn’t where we were supposed to have gotten married or where our reception would have been. Why had we stayed here?
The second the woman in the elevator recognized me, her demeanor changed. She was tall and maybe thirty years old. She was in a bathrobe, so she was either coming from the spa or the pool. I assumed there were both those things in this hotel. I supposed it was possible she just liked to walk around in her bathrobe. Stranger things had happened.
“You’re Layla. One of the redheads.” Her accent was British.
I put on my smile. “I am. But I mean, there are lots of redheads. I bet you can find three or four others here. We’re—”
“My God,” Zeke groaned behind me, leaning on the elevator wall. “Really? Every time?”
I ignored him. He could go suck on an egg. “Sorry, he can’t control himself. We don’t pay attention to him, and you shouldn’t either.” I smiled broader at the woman, hoping she’d remember that and not Zeke’s outburst.
“Oh, I would love to shop with you.” She practically squealed. “And you can make me look like the best me.”
I nodded. “I’d love to be able to do that if we had the time.” The elevator dinged. “Have a wonderful day.”
I limped out of the elevator, letting everyone else walk in front of me in the hall. While the manager did that, Zeke didn’t. He glared at me as he slowed his stride to match my own. “Do you give that little speech every time someone knows you, andwhat is that thing they keep saying to you? Look like the best me.”
“I wrote a book. That was what I talked about in the book. Helping people to dress to look like the best them.”
He lifted his eyebrows. I’d surprised him, and I couldn’t imagine that happened very often. “You wrote a book?”
Here was where I could lie, except I never did. The thing about a ghostwriter was that I didn’t have to tell anyone I’d done that. Only I always had. In every interview, every conversation ever, I’d admitted to it. I hadn’t really written the book, not technically.
“I didn’t write it. I collaborated on it. I can’t write a book. I’m not smart. I’m not able to do things like that. But I talked to the woman who wrote it, and she wrote it trying to be as close to my voice as she could possibly be.”
He nodded. “Lots of famous people do that. Not everyone is able to sit at the computer and… You know what? How many times a day do you say that I’m-not-smart thing?”
We’d gotten to my room. The manager opened it, and I walked in, going straight to the safe. I always used the same code, so it was no problem getting in there to pull out my passport and my wallet. I held both in my hands, turning myself back to Zeke. I was sure the manager could speak English. I’d never stayed at a hotel where most of the staff couldn’t speak the languages of the guests, at least well enough to communicate basic things.
But if he weren’t embarrassed, I wouldn’t be. “I don’t say it that often, actually. Most of the people I talk to on a regular basis know already.”
“Okay. That’s the last time you’ll say it. Consider me informed of your opinion on the subject. I don’t want to hear it again.”
I shook my head. “You asked, so I had to explain.”
“Fine.”
We rode in silence back to the lobby. Zeke was stewing about what I’d said, or maybe it was something else I did. Or maybe he was just angry about the shape of the elevator. I’d never imagined him so moody. The manager practically bowed to him on our way out, and I limped my way into the car.
Sighing, I waited for Zeke to come in the other side, and when he didn’t, I turned around to see what was going on. He was in the trunk, digging through my bags.
“What the hell?” I pushed open the door. “What are you doing?”
“Socks. Shoes. Do you own any that aren’t high heels? Do you own socks?”
