I told Mark nothing would happen to Pix on my watch.
Which is ironic, considering I’m about to kill her if she doesn’t text me.
Yes, I could call. Except I won’t.
The last thing she needs is a pushy, overbearing douchebag. That’s what her ex is for.
I rub my chin. I could ask Gabe. Which would immediately spiral into questions I have zero interest in answering.
How was the auction?
What have you and my sister been up to?
And if she’s only staying with you tonight, where’d she stay last night?
Where?
Riding my face until sunrise, that’s where.
So, no. I keep a deliberate ten feet between myself and that landmine.
Travis lights a cigarette and leans against the hood, watching me pace.
The problem is that until Pix tells me exactly which hotel her luggage is at, I’m going nowhere. New York City has more than seven hundred hotels, and I don’t intend to check them alphabetically.
Any day now, Pix.
Finally, my phone pings.
About damn time.
Unknown Number
My suitcase is at The Barrington.
My PA Kali gets in shortly.
She’ll meet you in the lobby.
The Barrington.
You have got to be kidding me.
I tamp down my irritation and program her name in my phone before responding. Dumbfounded, I type.
Me
Did you pick this place?
Her Royal Highness
What’s wrong with The Barrington?
I blow out a breath and shake my head.
What’s wrong with The Barrington? Let me count the ways.
The luxury hotel is tucked at the tail end of red-carpet row, where celebrities hate paparazzi in public and adore them in private.
