Dirty Little Desires (Dirty Little Series Book 3)

by Cassie Cross

  The living room has a comfy looking sectional surrounding a TV that’s about the size of a full mattress. It’s tastefully decorated in whites, creams and beiges with little pops of color in the pillows and accessories. There’s a dining room off of a kitchenette, and a balcony that offers the same view of the city we just saw downstairs.

  “You’ve really outdone yourself here,” I tease. “After this, seeing my room is probably going to be a disappointment.”

  Oliver’s brows scrunch together. “What do you mean?”

  “My room, you know the place you had my bags delivered to. Where I’m going to sleep? That ring a bell?”

  The corner of Oliver’s mouth tilts up into a half grin as he takes a couple steps to the right, then motions to a door off the living room. “Your suitcases are in there.”

  It must be the jet lag or something, because I’m not quite comprehending. This floor is Oliver’s, right? “What?”

  “Your suitcases are in there. That’s your room.”

  “I’m staying here?”

  Oliver nods.

  “In this room?”

  “Yes,” he laughs. “In this room.”

  “Then where are you staying?”

  Smiling, he says, “You’re looking at it.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Is there another room in here?” I ask, hoping that Oliver doesn’t intend to sleep on the couch or something.

  He laughs like he doesn’t quite understand this sudden onset of confusion. “Yes.” He glances over his right shoulder. “There’s one right over there,” he says slowly. “That’s where I’m sleeping.”

  Oh, well…that’s a relief, I guess. If I’m honest with myself, it’s somewhat disappointing. I’m going to blame this on my choice of reading material for my flight over here, a beach read where romance sparked for the hero and heroine when they had to share a bed due to a hotel mix-up. I could laugh at myself for being so ridiculous.

  Damn my overactive imagination and unfortunate choice of in-flight entertainment.

  I walk into the bedroom, which, just like the rest of the place, is pristine and bright. The focal point of the room is a fluffy-looking queen-sized bed with more pillows than I could ever possibly need propped up against a wheat-colored linen headboard. It’s framed by two nightstands, one of which has an assortment of lotions in a small basket on top. I let myself fall back onto the bed and let out a deep sigh. Not getting up from here anytime soon if I can help it.

  “Are you going to be okay on your own here for a little while?” Oliver asks.

  I peer up at him from the down comforter heaven that I would like to make my permanent residence.

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “I think I’ll be all right here. It’s only six, but I can tell I’m not going to be able to stay awake until any normal bedtime hour. Why? Are you leaving?”

  Oliver looks a little regretful as he says, “Yes. I have a dinner meeting downtown. I’m sorry, it’s something I set up before I knew you were coming, and it can’t be changed.”

  Despite my disappointment at not having him around for the evening, I try to ease his conscience with a warm smile. “I’m a big girl, I’ll be alright on my own.” The great room definitely helps with that. “I’m probably going to take a bath, tend to my dresses, and then jump on this bed repeatedly until I collapse onto its pillowy softness.”

  Oliver huffs out a laugh. “Try not to break the bed, or yourself.” He takes a deep breath and slides his hands into his pockets. “If you need anything, press zero on any of the phones in here. I let housekeeping know that you might have some special requests. I didn’t know if you’d need an iron or something else for your clothes. They can bring up anything you want, and I’m always a phone call away, okay?”

  I nod. If he could start being just a little less thoughtful that would probably help me and my feelings out a great deal. “Thanks, Oliver.”

  He gives me a warm smile. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you later, okay?”

  I smile back, then force myself to get out of the bed so I can walk him to the door. Or…elevator, I guess. That’s the very least I can do. “Have fun at your dinner,” I say as he presses the call button. “Bring me a doggie bag or something.”

  He laughs, then steps into the elevator, giving me this cute, dorky little wave as the doors shut.

  I sigh. Damn him.

  The ensuite bathroom—like the rest of this hotel—is amazing.

  It has double sinks with antique mirrors over each, a subway-tiled shower and a clawfoot tub in front of a bay window overlooking the property. On the windowsill next to the tub is a wicker box stocked with the finest soaps and lotions a girl could ever want. I wouldn’t be surprised if that was something Oliver specifically requested for me, because he always thinks of the little things that make people feel right at home. It’s part of what makes him so great at his job.

  After a long day of traveling, I can’t think of anything better or more relaxing than taking a bath. It takes me a few tries to figure out the faucet situation, and while the tub fills up I slip back into the bedroom. I peel off my clothes and drape them over the end of the bed, then go back into the bathroom.

  Man, I’m looking rough.

  My curls are all disheveled, falling out of my bun, and my eyes are tired and bloodshot. The upside to this is that it makes the blue look really bright. The downside is…everything else that comes along with looking ragged. Maybe I can call down to room service and have them bring up some cucumber slices or something. It’d be great if I could get this situation taken care of before the party tomorrow night.

  When the tub is nearly full, I drop in a bath bomb I plucked out of the basket by the window, breathing in the mango scent as it turns the water orange.

  I slip into the water and it’s just this side of being too hot. The heat feels great on my aching muscles. I hadn’t realized how tense my shoulders and upper back were, since I’ve been crouching over my sewing table all week, perfecting the pieces I brought with me from New York. There’s a crick in my neck that I can’t seem to work out—how I only now realized it is beyond me. I sink deeper into the water and put a rolled up towel just below the base of my head. It offers a little relief.

  I relax with my eyes closed until the water is tepid.

  After I dry myself off I slip into my favorite tank top and shorts and unpack the samples I brought with me on the off chance I’ll need them tomorrow night. I did a great job packing them, and thanks to a nearly magical use of bubble wrap, I can barely tell they’ve been in a suitcase all day. Some minor steaming should get them looking good as new.

  My stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten yet with a loud, embarrassing growl. In the main room, I find the private dining menu in a leather folio on the desk. I flip through the pages, completely unable to make a choice because everything looks so delicious. At this point I’d probably eat this menu and not complain about it.

  I’m about to pick up the receiver to order something—anything—when there’s a knock on the door. Knowing there’s only a select few people who can get up here piques my curiosity.

  I open the door to a bellman standing with a cart full of plates covered with shiny silver cloches.

  “Miss Williams?” he asks with a kind smile.

  “Yes?” I say slowly and slightly confused, wondering if I somehow managed to call for room service without remembering that I’d done it.

  “May I come in?”

  Well, I’m certainly not going to say no to a hotel employee bearing food. I step aside and hold the door open for him.

  As he sets up the spread on the dining table he says, “Mister Warren asked for these to be sent up. He thought you might be hungry.”

  He thought correctly. And he is just…completely wonderful.

  “He did?” I ask.

  The man nods. “He requested a sampling of your favorites.”

  Completely. Wonderful.

  I walk over to the table and see bite-
sized sandwiches, a small cup of tomato soup, a little salad with parmesan crisps sprinkled on top. There’s an ice-cold glass of ginger ale alongside a small brownie with a scoop of vanilla on top.

  “Thank you,” I reply gratefully as I reach for my purse to find a tip.

  “You’re quite welcome, ma’am,” he says as he takes the bills. “I’ll return for the plates later. You can leave them outside the door.”

  Once he’s gone, I pick up my phone and debate about whether or not I should call Oliver. I want to thank him for thinking of me, but I definitely don’t want to bother him in the middle of a meeting. It’s been about an hour and a half since he left, maybe he’s finished?

  I decide I’ll thank him when he gets back, and start munching on all the goodies laid out before me. I knew Portland was a foodie town before I got here, but I wasn’t expecting anything like this. These simple dishes are transformed into something delectable, and this is just room service.

  When I’m finished, I wheel the cart outside the door and let the concierge know that the dishes are ready to be picked up. Then I settle down on the sofa, wrap myself in a soft, warm blanket and start reading the rest of my book.

  I don’t remember drifting off, but I wake up to the soft snick of the door closing as Oliver walks into the room. Falling asleep with my head flopping off to the side made the crick in my neck return with a vengeance, and I do my best to rub out the kinks as I sit up.

  Oliver’s tie is loose around his neck and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his forearms. This look? It’s my own personal weakness.

  “Hey,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  I stretch out, cracking my neck as Oliver sits down next to me. “I needed to be woken up. I passed out in a mini food coma.”

  “Did you like it?” He lets his head fall back onto a pillow, then turns and looks at me.

  “I don’t know if like is a strong enough word. Thank you for thinking of me.”

  He smiles lazily. “You’re welcome.”

  I rest my head against the cushions and look at Oliver. “The bathtub is amazing. Everything is amazing. I want to live in this hotel.”

  He hums out an agreeable noise. “That can be arranged, you know. I’d miss you in New York though.”

  A warm tingling reaches my fingertips. “Yeah?”

  Oliver nods seriously. “Yeah.”

  That’s when my traitor body decides it’s time for a record-setting yawn.

  Oliver sits up and the moment is gone. “You should probably get some sleep. I was surprised you weren’t in bed already.”

  “I was trying to stay up so I could thank you for dinner.”

  Oliver laughs, shaking his head. “You could’ve texted, you know.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t want to be a bother.”

  “You’re never a bother. The dinner wasn’t great and the company was even worse. I was bored; I would’ve rather been here eating finger food with you.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say, patting his knee as I stand with great effort. “You definitely missed out.” I stand and stretch, then let out yet another yawn. “I’m going to head off to bed. Thank you for everything today.”

  “You’re welcome. Get some sleep. You have a big day tomorrow,” Oliver says with a smile.

  The warm fuzzies I’d been feeling give way to the nervousness I’ve managed to keep at bay all night. “I do have a big day tomorrow.”

  “Rest up,” he says.

  “Goodnight Oliver.” I look over my shoulder when I get to my door.

  “‘Night, Felicity.”

  Chapter Eight

  I wake up with the early morning sun blaring brightly through the window directly onto my face. I try to be annoyed about it, but don’t feel that lagging exhaustion that accompanies me out of bed most days. The only reason I want to stay in bed this morning is because it’s so amazingly comfortable. If I let myself do that though, I’ll never get up. I need to get up. I yawn and stretch, then roll over and pluck my phone off of the nightstand.

  It’s 7:30 AM. I must’ve been really tired because I never sleep past 10 at home. I roll my legs off the side of the bed and once I’m upright I notice the scent of freshly brewed coffee permeating the air. That’s enough to get me up.

  I amble to the bathroom and wash my face. Looking in the mirror, the bone-deep tiredness that had set up residence in the bags beneath my eyes seems to have gone. That’s a relief. A little bit of pampering before the benefit tonight and I should be good as new.

  Out in the main room, Oliver’s sitting at the dining room table, already fully dressed. He’s casual in jeans and a pullover, reading the paper and nursing a cup of coffee. The room is bright, the doors leading out to the balcony are fully open. The curtains flutter in the breeze and birds chirping is the soundtrack to the morning.

  Oliver looks up at me and smiles. “Morning,” he says.

  “Morning.” I reach up and fiddle with one of the strands of hair that’s fallen out of my bun, feeling a little self-conscious about the way Oliver’s looking at me. He’s seen me fresh out of bed before, I don’t know why this time is any different. “Do I smell coffee?” I ask stupidly, just wanting to start any kind of conversation to end this vaguely awkward moment.

  “There’s a pot on the counter over there.” Oliver nods toward the kitchenette.

  I walk over and pour myself a cup, then take half a bagel from the pile next to the coffee maker, put it on a plate and spread an ungodly amount of veggie cream cheese on it. It’s a little chilly in here—I probably should’ve put something more substantial on than a tank and some shorts—but I want to go and soak up the sun while it’s out. I can already see the clouds rolling in.

  I set the coffee and the bagel down, then head onto the balcony. There are a few early-morning walkers making laps around the yard and a smattering of guests eating breakfast as they look out onto the city. I take a few deep breaths, filling my lungs with fresh air before I go back in side and take a seat across from Oliver.

  A long sip of coffee warms me up, and wrapping my fingers around the mug chases some of the chill away.

  “Did you sleep well?” Oliver asks.

  “Oh yeah. The soft pillowy-ness of that mattress was a problem though. I had to make myself get out of it.”

  Oliver grins. “Anything in particular you want to do today?”

  I don’t really need to start getting ready until early afternoon, which leaves the whole morning wide open. “Yesterday you said that there’s a market on Saturdays? I’d like to check that out.”

  Oliver’s grin widens to a full-on smile. “Shopping? Of course that’s what you’d want to do.”

  I stretch out my leg and tap his calf with my big toe. Smartass. “You know me.”

  “I do.” I take a bite of my bagel, because that unreadable look in his eyes is back. I don’t like knowing what it is, and even more, I’m kind of scared to ask. The way my life works he’s liable to reply with something completely soul-crushing, like being amazed at how much I’ve grown from the scrawny nuisance who used to tag along with him, my brother and Caleb when I was little.

  My poor heart just couldn’t take that.

  Oliver practically bolts out of his chair, disappearing into his room. He emerges a few seconds later with a hoodie, which he hands to me.

  “I thought you might be cold,” he says, sounding almost strained.

  I can’t help but smile at him for noticing, but when I slide it over my head and pull it down, I understand exactly why he noticed. My nipples are fully at attention, straining against my shirt, and I had no idea.

  God, could this be more embarrassing? The flash of heat in my cheeks helps with the temperature issue I’m having.

  “Thanks,” I manage, despite desperately wanting to die.

  “I have some things I have to take care of for the benefit this morning, but I’ll have a car take you down there and bring you back whenever you’re ready.”

 
My stomach drops with disappointment. I know he’s here for business, and that I’m just a person who tagged along, but I was hoping that we’d get to spend at least some time together this weekend. I do my best to school my expression so Oliver doesn’t realize that, since clearly he wasn’t on the same page.

  I think I fail because he quickly adds, “I could meet you there around lunch if you want?”

  What I don’t want is to be anyone’s burden, especially his. “I think I’ll do alright on my own.”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of being your conscience so you won’t do too much damage.”

  “I don’t think I’ll need a conscience today. The nerves will keep me from enjoying myself too much.”

  Oliver raises a brow. “Are you nervous?”

  “No,” I reply quickly. “No way. It’s only the most important night of my life with my entire future hanging in the balance. Not nervous at all.”

  Oliver playfully rolls his eyes. “Anything I can do to help?”

  I think on it for a minute, then remember what Corinne mentioned the other day when we were on the phone. “Yeah, actually. There is.”

  He folds his paper and puts it down on the table, squaring his shoulders letting me know I have his full attention. That’s a little intimidating.

  “Go for it.”

  I take a deep breath. “You get a lot of people wanting to work for you, right?”

  He nods. “Yep.”

  “What’s the best way to present yourself to someone like you—someone really successful—when someone like me wants a mentor? I don’t want to walk up to Poppy Argyle and leave her with the impression that I’m some young idiot who is just after her name recognition. I want to give myself the best chance I have at getting a yes.”

  Oliver thinks on that for a few seconds. “Honestly? I know this is cliche, but just be yourself.”

  “C’mon, Oliver!”

  “No,” he continues with a smile. “I mean it! Hear me out. A lot of people approach me asking for mentorship, but most of the time it’s not because they want to get into the industry or because they have a love for hospitality and want to learn from someone who’s successful at it. A lot of them just want a life like mine and think that learning from me is the key to getting it. When someone is really passionate about something, you can feel it. The way that you talk about designing, sewing, and the clothes that you make? You just radiate happiness and dedication and if someone like that—someone like you—wanted to learn from me, I wouldn’t be able to say no.”