The concierge looks up the second I approach.
“Ah, yes. Miss Alvarez. We’ve been expecting you.”
If this man is a concierge, then I’m a professional tightrope walker.
I register the suit first. Crisp. Italian. Brioni, if I had to bet.
Then the posture. Military straight, muscles straining the fabric like it’s holding on for dear life.
And then there’s the unmistakable bulge of a gun.
Cool.
I really don’t love that this man knows my real name.
Before I can back away slowly and pretend I left something very important in the car, Travis breezes past, bags in tow.
And considering I’ve already been through hell and back again, suffice it to say, I need my stuff.
Especially my phone.
Which is in my backpack.
The concierge slides a key across the desk. “Eighth floor.”
I take it slowly. “What room on the eighth floor?”
He smiles, polite and unbothered. “Your suite is the entire eighth floor.”
Oh?
A thousand questions fire off in my head, all tripping over each other, but Travis is already at the elevator, holding the door.
I don’t want to keep him waiting. He’s been incredibly nice.
I take the key and step inside.
He presses the button, and the doors slide shut.
He hesitates for a moment before speaking, “It’s really important that nobody knows you’re here.”
There’s something in his voice. A subtle shift I’ve learned to hear on set. Controlled concern. The kind that means this matters.
And that he’s stepping out of bounds to say it.
I nod. “I won’t tell anyone.”
The elevator opens, and we step into the suite. Travis heads down the hall. “I’ll put your bags in the biggest bedroom.”
“The biggest bedroom,” I repeat. “How many are there?”
He chuckles. “You’ll have fun finding out.”
The space unfolds exactly the way I remember it. Same scale. Same layout. The difference hits immediately, though.
The place Harrison brought me to was all sharp lines and alpha-male restraint. Dark wood. Minimal furniture. A utilitarian space where nothing existed unless it served a purpose.
This one is… softer.
