The bathroom door closes behind him, and I flop down on the little two-seater sofa next to the balcony door, looking around curiously.
Alex’s room is identical to mine, except everything is reversed, so his bathroom is back-to-back with mine, and so is the bed. I squirm in my seat, thinking of the thin wall that would’ve been the only thing separating us last night as we each lay asleep.
No, that’s weird.
I amnotgoing to think about sleeping next to Alex Fox. Not even with a wall between us.
Reversed-room aside, the other big difference between Alex’s room and mine is how neat his is. My room currently looks like a hurricane just blew through it, with clothes and makeup scattered over every surface, even though I’ve only been here for two nights. This room, by contrast, shows almost no sign of habitation, other than the unmade bed (Which Ididjust drag him out of, to be fair…), and a huge bunch of pink flowers in a vase on the dressing table, which…
… wait. Why does he have a bunch of flowers in his room? I definitely don’t have one in mine.
I frown, trying to remember if I’veeverstayed in a hotel room where I’ve been presented with flowers upon arrival.
No, would be the answer to that.
(To be fair, until this holiday, the last time I was abroad, I was sharing a room with my brother. But still. Surely hotels don’t normally give flowers to their guests? Do they? And the thought of Alex going out and buyinghimselfa bunch of pale pink roses is even weirder. So how did they get here?)
I know Alex told me not to touch anything, but as I look at the flowers, I notice a little card lying next to them in an envelope, and that’s far too much temptation for me to resist, so I get quickly to my feet and cross the room to look at it, letting out a little yelp of pain as my foot makes contact with something solid on the floor.
I freeze, looking guiltily in the direction of the bathroom, while praying that the noise from the shower is loud enough to have covered the sound. The water continues to flow, so I glance down to see what I’ve hit, and…
It’s an ice bucket.
Or the base of an ice bucket, rather.
The rest of it is right there in front of me, containing an unopened bottle of Veuve Clicquot, which…seriously?
Don’t tell me this one’s ‘compliments of the hotel’ too? Why does this guy keep being given champagne everywhere he goes? And what do I need to do to get in on that?
That’s a question for later, though. For now, my sights are once again set on the flowers; which, now that I’m closer to them, I can see definitely have a card with them, presumably containing the name of the sender — and maybe even a message, too.
Feeling a bit like I’m in a spy movie, I tiptoe closer, almost within reach of my goal.
“Summer? What are you doing?”
I spin around, flushing with the embarrassment of being caught in the act. Alex is standing just outside the bathroom door, water glistening on his bare chest, and a small white towel around his waist.
A very tiny towel.
And a very toned waist.
Let’s just say it’s a good job I’m already blushing.
“Well?”
Alex glares at me accusingly, crossing his arms over that impressive chest of his.
“I’m just taking a closer look at these gorgeous flowers,” I tell him, all wide-eyed innocence. “I bet they smell amazing. Mmmmm!”
I take a step closer, and pantomime the act of leaning forward to sniff at them ostentatiously, my eyes flicking regretfully to the little card next to them, which I seem doomed never to open.
Not that I should have been eventryingto open it, anyway.
I can’t believe I did that.
Who knew Cool Summer was going to turn out to be such a snoop?
“Are you, um, celebrating something, then?” I ask, nodding towards the champagne bottle. “Is it your birthday?”
