“Oh, that’s wonderful. Beautifulandcaring. You’ve done quite well for yourself, Ben.”
Popping another piece of steak into my mouth, I give my fiancée an over-the-top smile before spending the rest of the meal engaging with my food.Think Milton will still think me beautiful if I literally lick this plate clean?
After making uncomfortable small talk for what feels like days, Milton asks if we’d like any dessert before we retire for the evening. His phrasing seems odd, but in the short time I’ve known him, I think odd might just be his middle name.
“Yes,” I answer as Ben simultaneously says, “No.”
My nose wrinkles in disgust. Who comes to a place like this and doesn’t get dessert?
Milton lets out a hearty chuckle. “Why don’t I ask the server to package a few items you can take with you?” He nudges Ben. “Happy wife, happy life, son.”
Oh, good grief.
I reach for my water but get confused which of the two glasses to my left is mine. Lifting the two, I examine them closely, as if the total volume contained within them might be the answer. The second glass of wine and the long day must have caught up with me, as I see two of Ben through the goblets and giggle, sticking my tongue out at him.
A chuckle rumbles from his direction, and the delicious sound shoots straight to the apex of my thighs. I swallow hard, lowering the glasses just as Ben leans into my hair. “You’re so fucking cute, baby girl. Thank you for this.”
My mouth goes dry. All of the moisture has apparently migrated south.Lord hammercy, Grace.Buy you a dress, feed you a nice meal, then throw in ababy girl,and you turn into a filthy hoe.
My inner monologue is interrupted when a server brings a takeout bag, and my male companions stand from their seats. As we make our way out of the restaurant, Milton asks if we haveeverything. Glancing down, I reaffirm I have my clutch and that bag of treats for later.
Ben flashes an uneasy expression. “I just need to grab our bag from the truck.”
Wait. What?
“No problem. If you two will follow me, I’ll give you a brief tour of the hotel on the way to the lobby. Your room is right around the corner from the front desk.”
My mouth falls open as Milton walks ahead of us, and Ben pulls me firmly into his side.
Your room?
11
BEN
Milton is steady talking,not missing a beat as he points out the history of the archaic place. He focuses more on the collections of hand signed guest books and areas that bring back memories of his late wife than anything having to do with the physical structure or business side of the hotel. But, given what I’ve learned about him so far, it’s not at all surprising. There’s a reason this place hasn’t survived a new generation of lake visitors.
The lobby feels like it’s been frozen in time and then slowly forgotten. The carpet is a muddy swirl of browns and oranges, threadbare in the places where countless rolling suitcases have worn pale tracks through it. Brass fixtures that were once meant to gleam now sit dulled and fingerprinted beneath soft, yellowed lighting.
A heavy scent of old air, floral cleaner, and something faintly musty hangs in the space, clinging to the back of my throat. The front desk is topped with scratched laminate, and behind it a row of faded brochures curl at the edges, advertising attractions that haven’t been “new” in decades.
Down the hallway, the walls are lined with peeling wallpaper patterned in tired vines and roses, the seams lifting like they’re trying to escape. Every few steps, a fluorescent light flickers and hums, casting a weak glow over scuffed baseboards and dented doors painted in a once-cheerful beige. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath, not abandoned as much as suspended in a long, slow sigh of neglect. As if it’s waiting for someone to remember what it used to be.
I try to keep Grace’s body firmly tucked against me, her hand in mine, as we stroll the corridor. But the rabid little vixen seems hell-bent on trying to break my fingers in two. When that doesn’t work, she digs her savage talons into my flesh.Fuck. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying out at her silent assault.
I should focus on how my sketches line up with the hotel before me. Use this time to provide a better estimate of what will be required to transform this hotel into my vision of a chic escape for the rich and famous. The proximity to D.C. could bring plenty of wealthy clients. Yet I’m more concerned about ending up on the news when my uncooperative companion attempts to murder me the moment the doors close behind us.
Milton’s steps come to an unexpected stop, causing me momentarily to lose my grip on Grace, her nails digging deeper into my skin. My face contorts in agony, letting out a small yelp just as he turns to face us.
“Here you go. It’s one of our best rooms.” Milton waves his hand in the direction of the door, holding out a silver key on a green triangular plastic chain. An actual key. I didn’t think there was a hotel left that still used these. “I’m sure you two would like to get settled. The front desk is just around this hallway. Don’t hesitate to ask Holly, the night clerk, for anything you need. I’ll probably be here for a while doing some last-minute business. But I’ll see you bright and early for breakfast.” Milton shakes my hand, and I hold my breath, worried Grace might out me at any moment.
Her expression appears equal parts shock and rage. I hesitate, hoping Milton will walk away so I can quickly grab her and run to the car sight unseen, but he stands sentry at our doorway.
“Goodnight. We appreciate your hospitality, Milton.” Grace thankfully stays quiet. Placing the key in the lock, I say a silent prayer there’s enough insulation in these walls to stifle the verbal volcano I’m expecting to erupt the moment the door closes.
12
GRACE
