“Welcome to your suite,Ms. Halloway. Let me get the lights for you.”
The overheads flick on, and I swear I glitch.
The entire living room is filled wall-to-wall withbags. Premium, glossy handled totes in every color you can imagine.
Pinks. Blues. Silvers. Blacks. Orange ones printed with tiny pumpkins.
They fill the sofa, spill onto the coffee table, and stack against the windows. The dining table is buried under them like a graveyard of retail therapy.
“What,” I whisper, “in the actual world.”
The doorman’s eyes widen like he is seeing the problem for the first time. “Ma’am, I believe Mr. Costello must have forgotten this suite was being used for storage. One of the members of the organization’s annual charity purchases.”
I blink. “Charity. Purchases.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He steps inside, navigating through aisles of bags like we are in some high-end hoarder’s home. “The children’s coats. Winter gear. Halloween costumes. I imagine they were planning to move them tomorrow as it’s almost Halloween.”
I just stand there, speechless. My brain is doing that buffering circle thing. I peek into the nearest bag and see a small, sparkly velvet witch costume. Another holds a tiny winter coat, thick and unbelievably warm, the tag still attached. Another baghas fuzzy boots and matching gloves. Another has a dinosaur onesie. Hundreds. Hundreds of them.
My throat goes tight. This is not a team thing. This is not a media event. This is not some PR stunt with cameras and speeches. This… feels personal.
The doorman continues, “I can have these removed if you would prefer. Though it may take a bit of time to gather staff.”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s fine. Really. All we need is a space to sleep.” I walk toward one of the closed doors and open it.
“Aw, yes, the treat bags. He insists on shelf-stable nutritional goods as well as candy, and” he chuckles. “Dental hygiene products.”
“Who does this?”
He smiles gently. “The player who handles this program every year is very quiet about it. Always the same gentleman. Buys out entire inventory lists. Has everything delivered here under another name. Most never notice. I wouldn’t want to violate his privacy.”
“Robert,” a very familiar deep voice comes from behind. “Everything good in here?”
My jaw drops, and the doorman lifts a brow and whispers, “Oops.”
When he steps away, Deacon’s eyes meet mine. He cocks his head to the side, “Miss Holloway?”
“I’m sorry about this, Mr. Moretti, but Mr. Costello insisted I bring her here.”
“You’re good,” Deacon states. “I’ll help her find a space.”
“I can take her to the room Miss Lawson booked for her this morning. It is ready and?—”
“She’ll let you know if she needs it,” Deacon steps away from the door, obviously telling him he can leave.
“Thank you, Robert,” I call to his retreating back when I finally find the words.
“My pleasure, Miss Holloway.”
Robert and Deacon unpack the cart, and then it is just us.
When the door finally clicks shut behind Robert, my pulse spikes. The room suddenly feels too big, too bright, and too full of coats, costumes, and whatever version of Deacon Moretti I am trying to understand right now.
He stands there in the doorway, hands in his pockets, hair damp, feet… bare?
“You are good?” he asks, voice low.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Because what am I supposed to say? Sorry, I am standing in the middle of your holiday Santa workshop. Sorry, your secret charity bunker blew up in your face. Sorry, I am seeing pieces of the man you clearly never wanted anyone to know.
