Her long, electric-blue nails click against the keys and her expression lightens a moment later.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she says, exhaling. “The Diamond suite is available tonight.”
“Suite?”
“It’s all we have, unfortunately.” Her head tilts. “And it’s really nice. King bed. Mini bar. Jacuzzi. Your voucher will cover it.”
“Let me stop you there,” I cut her off when I remember none of this is coming out of my pocket. “I’ll take it.”
She smiles. “Sure thing. It won’t be ready for a little while, but feel free to wait in the lobby. We also have a bar down the left hall and past the pool.”
I slide her my ID so she can grab my name and sign off on a few liability waivers. Gathering my bags, I wheel myself to a nearby chair in the lobby and retrieve my phone so I can update Delilah. I’m not looking forward to this call, but there’s nothing I can do at this point.
“Hey,” Delilah answers her phone with apprehension in her voice. “Why are you calling? Why aren’t you on your plane?”
“Have you looked outside lately?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s snowing, but that’s normal. It’s December in Rixton Falls.”
“There’s apparently a huge snowstorm moving north. It’s right outside New York City right now. Don’t you ever watch the news?”
Delilah exhales, and I picture her plopping into her favorite chair. “I try not to. Too depressing, and everything makes me cry right now.”
“Yeah, well, they’re calling it one of the biggest snowstorms of the last decade,” I say.
“Lovely.”
“All flights headed east have been grounded. I was hoping maybe they’d divert us, you know? Like it’d be nice if they could maybe drop us off in, say, Colorado or Iowa or Ohio, but nope. I guess that’s not how this works.’
“So what are you going to do?” she asks.
“The airline put us in a hotel for tonight. They gave us some number to call first thing tomorrow for updates.”
“Think you’ll be flying home tomorrow, then?”
Sighing, I’m not sure how to break this to her gently. “Delilah, they’re calling for even more snow tomorrow. And more the day after tomorrow.”
“So you probably won’t be coming home for a while.” She doesn’t ask, she only states, and her voice is flat. “Well, that really sucks.”
Her words are broken, and from my end of the phone, I physically feel the disappointment in her tone, sinking and powerless. I know thousands of women have babies every single day, but it was important to Delilah that I be there with her. Since we were little girls, we always planned to be there for each other for any and all monumental experiences, and it doesn’t get more monumental than giving life to a tiny human being. And I’ll be the godmother to her child. This is a moment we’ll never get back so long as we live.
“Listen,” I say. “I was thinking that maybe tomorrow, I’ll head to the nearest car rental place, and maybe I’ll just drive the rest of the way? I already did the math, and if I drive for thirteen hours a day for three straight days, I’ll be home by Saturday.”
“Daph,” she says in a way that makes her sound exactly like our mother, Bliss. “You can’t drive thirteen hours a day for three straight days. You’ll fall asleep at the wheel. It’s not safe.”
“No, I won’t,” I say. “I’ll stop each night and stay at a hotel. Get some good rest. Be on the road first thing in the morning. The way I figure is by the time I’m almost home, the storm will have passed and the roads will be plowed. It’ll be perfect timing. And who knows, maybe by the time I get to Chicago, flights will be back in service and I can hitch one home? I’d be home in, like, two hours.”
“You’re insane.”
“I’m not insane, I just really want to come home,” I say. “I hate being stranded. And I promised you I’d be there. Just please, please, please don’t go into labor before Saturday.”
My sister laughs. “I’ll try.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to grab a drink at the bar,” I say. “My suite isn’t ready yet.”
“Ooh, a suite?” Delilah asks. “Does it have a Jacuzzi?”
“Of course it has a Jacuzzi,” I say. “So you know what that means.”
“What?”
“It’s New Year’s Eve,” I say. “I’m going to raid my mini bar and go skinny dipping in my Jacuzzi and party like it’s 1999.”
“We were third-graders in 1999,” she says. “Pretty sure we had a sleepover that New Year’s and you and Emma Lancaster got into a hair-pulling fight because you both wanted to play with the same Flower Shop Barbie.”
“Those were the days.” I sigh. “Anyway, I’m letting you go. Just relax and take it easy so that baby’ll stay in a little longer.”
“Let me know when you leave tomorrow. I want regular check-ins. Keep me posted. If you’re driving and you get tired, just pull off on the side of the road, but at a well-lit rest stop. Or find the nearest hotel. Don’t pick up any hitchhikers . . .”
I hold the phone away from my ear as she rambles on. I have to let her do this. It’s how she is. Delilah is a grade A, first-class worrywart.
“Got it,” I say, pressing the phone against my ear a moment later. “I won’t do any of those things. Promise.”
“Love you. Drive safe,” Delilah says.
“Love you too.” Hanging up, I gather my things and scan the perimeter for the hall that leads to the pool that leads to the bar, only my gaze stops halfway and lands on a familiar figure standing behind the check-in desk.
His elbows rest on the ledge, and I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he blows out a frustrated breath.
“Are you absolutely sure you’re booked? This is the fourth hotel I’ve been to in the last two hours.” His tone is curt and the woman with the purple hair stands paralyzed. “I called here twenty minutes ago and was told by your manager that you had a room.”
“Yes and I’m sorry. That room has since been filled. Things have been a little hectic today. I hope you can understand that.”
“He was supposed to reserve the Diamond suite for me,” he says. “I gave him my name and phone number and told him I was on my way.”
“I’m so sorry.” The woman stares up at him through her thick glasses, her expression pale and powerless. “These mix-ups happen from time to time, and I’m really sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.”
“Are there any other hotels in this area?” He drags his palm down the side of his cheek. “I’ve already checked the Windermere, the Harriett, and Gateway Plaza. They’re all full.”
She purses her lips and shakes her head. “I’m afraid not. You’ll have to drive two hours to LA to find another. At least another decent one. I wouldn’t trust the ones in Rockport or Harper’s Bluff. Or Crawfordsville for that matter. They’re all owned by the same outfit and they’re not well managed. Or very clean. Or so I hear.”
“I can’t go to LA,” he says through gritted teeth. “My flight, God-willing, will be leaving from here first thing in the morning.”
Someone clearly hasn’t been checking the weather.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you in line?” a little old lady asks, placing her wrinkled hand on my arm. It’s only then that I realize I’ve been standing here, gawking at the shit show happening a mere eight or nine feet ahead like it’s some kind of cheap entertainment.
I guess I’m just slightly fascinated by the fact that Prince Charming was all half-smiles and dreamy eyes a few hours ago, and now he’s looking like he’s about to transform into the Incredible Hulk and smash this entire hotel lobby to bits.
“No, I’m not. Sorry.” I step aside. “Go ahead.”
The man turns around at the sound of my voice, his face twisted and eyes locking on mine. His expression is distorted now, all hard lines and shadowed edges. He reminds me of this hot-headed Italian boy I met a couple summers ago in Naples. I’d never admit this out loud to anyone, but his
temper was oddly erotic for me in a way that I’ve still yet to understand.
We hold eye contact in a second that feels sort of like forever, his face registering my familiarity in real time, and then he turns back to the lady with the purple hair.
“What am I supposed to do now?” His fist clenches on the ledge of her desk. “Sleep on a park bench?”
Her jaw hangs like she doesn’t know what to say and his relentless attention makes her nervous.
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she apologizes again.
“Who took the last room?” he asks.
Her gaze passes over his shoulders and lands on me. She doesn’t have to say a word, but her answer is loud and clear. My heart thuds in my chest before falling on the floor and shattering at my feet as I’m blanketed in a quick, cold sweat. I can’t believe Cool Mom just sold me out like that.
Careening his gaze toward me, our eyes lock, and I swallow the lump in my dry throat. I have no reason to be nervous. I didn’t do anything wrong. Cool Mom screwed up. If he has an issue, he should take it up with Cool Mom’s manager.
All I want is to settle into my room and figure out how the hell I’m getting out of this place. That’s it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Daphne, is it?” he asks, his brows meeting. His arms cross and his stance widens. I’m not sure if he’s scowling at me or lost in thought or somewhere in between.
“How’d you know . . .” I answer my own question the second I ask it. The license. The airport. God, that feels like forever ago, though now it occurs to me that it’s been mere hours. “Never mind.”
Pulling in a long breath, his shoulders rise and fall and his jaw tenses. “You took my room.”
Scoffing, I clutch my hand across my chest and try not to laugh. Is this guy for real? Is he serious right now? I glance at Cool Mom standing behind him who is officially cowering behind her computer monitor.
Thanks a lot, Cool Mom.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my words passing almost too quickly between my trembling lips. I don’t know what he expects, but his brooding glare makes me uneasy.
“No, you’re not,” he snaps back.
My jaw falls. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m not sorry I took your room because that would imply I did it intentionally.”
He moves toward me with slow, deliberate steps. “It’s been a really fucking shitty day. I need a place to stay. You took my room. Why don’t you do the right thing?”
“And what? Give it to you?” I scoff, taking a step away from him.
“No,” he chuffs. “Share.”
“I don’t even know you. Sorry. Not happening.”
“So you stole my room and now you’re going to make me sleep on a park bench tonight? Classy. I hope you sleep well tonight.”
Damn it. He has a point. And there’s no way in hell I’ll be getting any sleep with that on my conscience, though I still maintain the fact that I didn’t steal his room. At least not intentionally.
“Fine. You can stay with me.” For a second, I’m out of my own body. It’s like the words traveled from my brain to my lips, bypassing any sort of filter mechanism that may have thrown a red flag on this idea.
The man’s face softens but only slightly.
My jaw falls. I can’t believe this is happening. This is going to be awkward as hell, I just know it.
“I’m sure there’s a pull-out couch or something,” I add.
His eyes trace the length of me, and his hand lifts to his hair, running the length of the side of his head and leaving a ruffled, chocolate brown mess in its wake.
I’ve traveled all over these past few years. I’ve crashed on dozens of couches with people I hardly knew or friends of friends. I’ve stayed in hostels. I’ve shared a dorm room bathroom with six other girls more semesters than I can count. I’m not shy. I’m not stingy. And I’m certainly not about to make this guy sleep on a park bench tonight so I can have the luxury of a soft, warm bed on a night when hotel rooms are impossible to come by.
Okay.
Deep breath.
This is going to be weird.
And awkward.
And at times uncomfortable.
But I can’t leave him out on the streets.
“It’s up to you,” I say casually, brows raised as I adjust my bag over my shoulder.
His stare still hasn’t broken, and it’s almost bordering on the cusp of uncomfortable.
“All right,” he says a few beats later.
“Just don’t murder me in my sleep tonight and we’ll be fine,” I say.
I laugh.
He doesn’t.
I think he’s still pissed about the hotel losing his reservation, but he’s going to have to get over that because it is what it is, and I’m sure as hell not giving up my access to this room.
“Ms. Rosewood?” The lady with the purple hair calls my name like we’re back to being pals again. She cradles her phone receiver on her left shoulder. “Your suite is ready now. Would you like one key or two?”
Wheeling my bag to the front desk, I swallow the uncertain lump in my throat and request two keys.
We’re actually doing this.
I try not to laugh at the absurdity of this situation.
I don’t even know this man’s name.
“All right,” she says, handing off two iridescent silver fobs with a diamond emblem on each side. “The Diamond suite is on our seventh floor. It’ll be the last room on the left. 732. If you need anything at all, please press zero. We’ll be hosting a New Year’s party in the Hixson ballroom beginning at eight. Complimentary champagne and free hors d’oeuvres.”
“Thank you.” I hand a key to my . . . guest . . . and pull my suitcase toward the elevator. His footsteps, heavy and striding, follow behind me.
Stepping onto the elevator, I clear my throat and glance up at him. He towers over me, and his scent fills the small space we share.
“I never caught your name,” I break the silence and press the button for floor seven.
He looks down at me, pushing a hard breath through his nose, and the doors close. “Cristiano.”
“Do you have a last name, Cristiano?” I don’t tell him that I want to know for . . . safety purposes. You never know.
“Amato.”
Muzak pipes through the speakers above. I think it’s playing some fluted, lyric-less rendition of a Billy Joel song but I can’t be certain.
“Hi, Cristiano Amato,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Daphne Rosewood.”
He meets my handshake with obvious reluctance, the corner of his mouth drawing upward.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “I know who you are. We met earlier. Several times.”
I can practically read his thoughts based on the quizzical expression painted on his handsome face. He thinks I’m crazy. Certifiably. And maybe I am. I mean, I’d almost have to be to let a complete stranger share my hotel room.
“Since we’re going to be roommates,” I say, “We need a fresh start. Let’s forget everything that happened earlier . . . if that’s even possible.”
He chuckles once, like I amuse him, and then he slides his palm against mine before giving my hand a firm squeeze.
“All right,” he says, peering down his straight nose and stifling a smirk. It’s good to see him smile again, and it sure as hell beats standing next to his alter ego, The Incredible Hulk. “Fine. Nice to meet you, Daphne Rosewood.”
We float to the seventh floor, deposited on a cloud of gravity, and the doors ding before retreating into the walls.
“I guess . . . this is us,” I say, eyes drawn to the ambient crystal sconces adorning the wallpapered walls. It’s an arguably romantic hotel. Higher-end than most. Locally and privately owned, at least according to the brochure I read when I was standing in line earlier. I’m not sure how much this suite runs per night, but I’m thankful it’s not coming out of my pocket.
Cristiano stays quiet as we trek to the end of the hall and locate our room. S
wiping the fob, the light on the knob turns green and I push the door open. It brushes across the plush carpet as we’re greeted with a veil of cold, air-conditioned air. I flick on some lights and immediately move to the balcony, pulling the drapes to let in sunlight.
A king-sized bed centers the oversized suite, and a small group of living room furniture is arranged in one of the corners along with a mini bar and kitchenette. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and I can already catch a peek of a marble shower and the Jacuzzi tub I have every intention of enjoying at some point tonight.
I’d have really loved to have all of this to myself, but alas, I couldn’t be an asshole. My only hope is that this entire thing doesn’t backfire in my face because judging by the way Cristiano is slamming his bag on the floor and crouching in one of the chairs tells me he’s in a bad way right now.
“You okay?” I ask, almost afraid of his answer.
I never thought I’d be missing the obnoxiously charming version of him I met just hours ago.
He glances up, his face pained and his fingers curled into fists.
“I have to get home,” he says, jaw tight.
“You and me both.”
“I’m supposed to be in a wedding in New Jersey this weekend,” he says. “My best friend is getting married. I’m in the wedding party, and I’m supposed to be there all week.”
“Yeah, well, my sister’s having a baby any day now,” I say. “I’d really love to click my heels and be home too, but that’s not happening. We’re stuck here. Throwing luggage and going all Hulk-mode isn’t going to do you a damn bit of good.”
He blows a rushed breath between his full lips and meets my gaze, his expression morphing from hardened to defeated.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just . . . I’m supposed to be there. I . . .”
“I get it. Trust me. This really fucking sucks.” I plop down on the edge of the king bed, running the palms of my hand over the navy and white duvet. “It’s New Year’s Eve. You probably wanted to be home with your friends, going out, having a good time. And now you’re stuck here in this weird little hotel in some small seaside town with some random girl who chewed you out at the airport earlier for being too charming. You have a lot of things to be ticked off about.”
Cold Hearted Page 27