“I will. You should come too.”
I pull my hand from my pocket. “Gonna have to take a rain check.”
“I bet you are. Let me know what Graham says.”
“Will do.”
“Later.”
“Goodbye.”
I slip my phone in my pocket and take one final look around the suite. If Blaire hadn’t lost her credit card, maybe I could have left whatever we shared last night in this room. But she did. So now I have an obligation to return it.
“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do,” I say to myself.
I snicker as I head toward the door.
Gentlemanly, my ass.
Chapter Eight
Blaire
“That will be sixteen dollars and eighty cents—including the delivery fee,” the voice on the other end of the phone says.
I reach my free hand up to balance the towel wrapped masterfully around my head and sit on the couch. Towel secured, I yank my purse to my side.
Despite the long, hot shower I took immediately after getting back to my room, I can still smell Holt on my skin. A tingle fires through my body every time I move. Every raise of my hand, bend of my neck, stretch of my legs is another reminder both of Holt and of muscles I haven’t used in an embarrassingly long time.
“That’s perfect,” I say, pulling my mind back to breakfast. “Let me grab my card.”
My abdomen rumbles as I lift my wallet from the depths of my bag and flick it open with my thumb. I tell myself it’s from needing nourishment and has nothing to do with the rich, almost tobacco-like scent of Holt that just whispered through the air. The rumble turns into a tumble as the bottom falls out of my stomach.
“Shit,” I mutter as I balance the phone against my shoulder.
My driver’s license, building identification, and various other useless cards snap as I pull them forward one by one.
Where is my card?
I only brought one with me since I didn’t plan on doing much but working in the room. Each snap of plastic is louder. Every nook that comes up empty adds to the ball of weight forming in the center of my chest.
I toss the wallet to the side and begin sorting through my bag. The phone nearly falls from my shoulder.
Out comes a gummy bear wrapper and earbuds. Next is a backup battery for my phone and a pair of sunglasses. Irritated, I dump the remaining contents onto the sofa.
Still, nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’ve misplaced my card. Can I call you back?”
“Absolutely. Hope you find it.”
“Me too. Thank you.”
I press the red end button before tossing my phone onto the sofa. My heart strums in my chest as I hurry to my briefcase and pop it open. My credit card isn’t there. It’s also not in my suitcase, but I check it just in case.
Shit.
“Where did I have it last?” I groan, massaging my temples with my fingertips.
