He lifts his phone and gives it a little wave as he and those glorious jeans walk off.
Butthead.
Travis opens the door, and the moment I step out of the car, it clicks.
Oh.
I know this place. I’ve had sex in this place.
With Harrison.
I squint up at the building, anger blooming fast. Mostly at myself.
Of course, Harrison would bring me back here.
740 Park Avenue
They might as well call it Casual Sex Central and save everyone the confusion.
Ugh.
It’s the same place I had to be out of by noon. Not that I would’ve stayed that long.
I rushed out the door for donuts.
For him.
I roll my eyes. Hard.
In the bright light of morning, though, it doesn’t look like a hotel.
No one flagging cabs. No valet. No people drifting in and out with rolling suitcases.
Just quiet glass and stone and a doorman who looks like a side-by-side refrigerator dressed for a funeral. Dark glasses. Neck tattoo. Zero warmth.
Before I can back away slowly and climb back into the car, Travis clicks the fob. The horn beeps twice, and he’s already wheeling my luggage toward the entrance.
Neck Tattoo holds the door open for him and Travis disappears inside.
The door stays open.
For me.
Is he carrying a gun?
He doesn’t say a word. Just stands there like a stone bulldozer, waiting for me to step inside.
Whatever protest I had fizzles out like carbonation from day-old champagne.
I murmur a thank-you and step inside.
The lobby is immaculate and empty and… wrong.
No guests milling around. No ambient music. No strategically placed plants to give it that friendly, lived-in look.
Just marble floors and expensive chandeliers and the unsettled feeling that this might be a hotel.
In a Stephen King novel.
