Sighing, I push up out of bed again and reach for the menu on the bedside table. I need empty calories, preferably ones made up of simple sugars…like those I might find in a giant ice cream sundae.
With extra hot fudge and cherries.
Thank God, they have it on the menu.
A bath, a sundae, and maybe…
I’ll text Damon.
Our eyes had connected on the plane, but then he’d been pulled into a conversation with the assistant GM, and Tommy had wanted to check in, and because the flight wasn’t long, we hadn’t shared more than that look.
But there was something in his eyes.
Something…off.
So bath, sundae, and maybe I’ll tackle whatever thatoffmeans in the morning.
Because I know that’s the most logical course of action, I crawl out of bed, snagging the receiver and hitting the button for room service.
It rings once, a woman coming on the other end, and just asI’m completing my order—with a firm emphasis on extra whipped cream and cherries—there’s a knock at the door.
My pulse speeds, fear and anticipation mixing.
Clashing.
Not Hiller, not ever again.
Which means…
That anticipation grows, takes over.
The knock comes again.
Along with a voice.
“Let me in, Red.”
Smiling, I hang up and hurry over to the door.
TWENTY-SIX
Damon
The pizza is burningthe shit out of my arm, but I’m precariously holding on to the six-pack of beer so I can’t shift it, even to save myself from the third degree burns.
Yes, I’m being dramatic.
Also, yes, the pizza is fuckinghot.
I knock again, the beer bottles rattling in the cardboard holder, calling, “Let me in, Red.”
Not loudly.
I don’t know who’s staying on this floor, and I don’t want to draw extra attention to me showing up at Joey’s door.
Not now.
Not when I’m barely holding on.
