I want to give in…but another quick knock forces me back to reality. I let out a soft groan into the stiff pillow, the faded scent of bleach and a citrusy detergent assaulting my nostrils.
Pushing myself up, I roll out of bed and stumble toward the door, not even checking to see if I’m wearing pants or not.
“I wasactuallysleeping for once,” I growl as I yank the door open, expecting to see Sora’s sweet and impossiblyalert face. But my next words die on my lips as I’m greeted instead by a young man with sandy blond hair and square-framed glasses, a tense smile plastered on his face. I stare at him for longer than is probably polite, not entirely sure who he is or why he’s here.
Briefly, I wonder if I have some sort of concussion. It would explain how I was able to sleep so deeply for once.
Then I notice the tray of food in his hands.
As if on cue, my stomach growls. But right away, all I can think about is coffee.
“I think you have the wrong room,” I mumble with a yawn. I start to close the door, but the man plants his foot directly in front of it, effectively propping it open—and also triggering my pre-caffeine rage. My eyes narrow.
Any self-aware person knows that a move like that is going to appear threatening. Apparently, this man is at least somewhat sane, because the expression he’s wearing, as we both stare down at his shiny black dress shoe wedged against my door, is a mix of surprise and horror.
He immediately pulls his foot back.
“I am so sorry, Ms. H-Hill. You are Ms. Hill, right?” he stammers out, peering down at the paper clenched between his fingers and then back up at me.
I pause. “Uh…yeah, that’s me.”
“It says here that this is to be delivered to your room?—”
“But I didn’t order breakfast.”
“And to—” He clears his throat, then recites the words on the page. “And to not take no for an answer, by whatever means necessary.”
I blink.
What. The.Fuck.
He looks down at the paper again, then up at me, likely questioning the life choices that have brought him to this exact moment.
“I beg yourfinestpardon?” I ask, my eyes wide.
“I’m—I’m not going to do that, though, okay?” he rushes to say. “But if Chef Braddock asks, can you, like—can you just tell him I did?”
It takes me a moment to register what he’s just said, and then I snort a laugh.
Chef Braddock.
Nolan.
I think back to his words yesterday, urging me not to skimp on breakfast.
Which, obviously, I did, having only circled the coffee selection and leaving everything else blank.
So what? Breakfast is overrated. Besides, no breakfast means more room for coffee.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I sigh, stepping back and opening the door wider so the young man can step in.
Cautiously, as if walking into the lair of a troll queen, he slips through the doorway, placing the tray on the desk behind me and removing the metal cover.
The smell of fried potatoes and spicy cinnamon fills the air immediately, and my traitorous stomach growls again.
“Is Chef Braddock always such a busybody?” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest.
Mostly to show how annoyed I am, but also because I’m not wearing a bra, and it’s gotten a bit chilly in the room with the door open.
