I start brainstorming again.
I enter the Plaza, so busy practicing the speech to myself that I don’t see where I’m going. That’s my excuse. When I crash right into a loitering concierge, I have no idea what his excuse is.
The man grunts as my phone and hand make contact with his midsection.
“Oh, sorry.” I take a step to the side to get to the elevators. The man steps in front of me, blocking my path.
“Is there something I can help with?” he asks.
“No. I’m good.” I try to step around him again, this time in the opposite direction.
The man moves with me again. “Are you staying here?”
“No. I’m meeting a friend.” I’m trying to have a romantic moment here, dude. What’s your damage?
I try to remember I’ve probably got terrifying traces of mascara on my face, along with red eyes despite how much I tried to clean up on the walk, and I’m racing through the lobby without watching where I’m going, late at night. So I may not be presenting my best foot forward right now. But he’s ruining my moment.
This is not how TV told me this would go. Even if my romantic declaration is only a temporary romantic declaration, I still deserve to make it with all due haste. And with none of this obstruction.
“Only hotel guests can go up the elevators.”
I take one more step to the opposite side, my shadow getting quicker to block me as he realizes I’m not giving up. “I’m meeting a hotel guest. He invited me.” I turned him down at first, sure. But this fool doesn’t know that. And I don’t particularly want to tell him. But it does make me wonder how bad my face looks. I tried to wipe at it with my jacket sleeve, but I didn’t bother stopping to see what I looked like in a mirror between my realization and now. There was no time.
Maybe I should have taken the time.
“I can’t let you up there.”
“Excuse me? Do you have the secret to turning lead into gold up there? I was invited.” I’m getting a little mad now. And a lot frustrated.
“Hotel guests only.” My shadow decides if I can get away with repeating myself, so can he.
“Fine. I’ll just call him and then you can tell your guest that he’s not allowed to have guests.” I dial Beau’s number and hope his phone’s not on silent or he’s not asleep.
Just before the call goes to voice mail, the ringing stops and the line goes silent. Then, “Baby Girl?”
Thank god he doesn’t keep his phone on silent like me and that he answered after my earlier rejection. But his voice is so rough, I think I did just wake him up. That roughness does things to me, sounding like the same low tone he uses in bed (and in elevators). But I tell my bits to stuff it; we’re on a mission before they can get any attention.
“Hi, Old MacDonald.”
“What’s up?” There’s hope in his voice, which sounds stronger with each sentence.
“Oh. You know. Just wanted to get your opinion on whether it’s okay to wear a denim jacket with jeans and a denim shirt.”
He rumbles a laugh, and I contemplate kicking the man in the shin for stopping me from seeing the laugh I earned.
“It’s always okay to wear a Canadian tuxedo, especially if all that denim is skintight.”
The laugh from my joke fades when I hear the hunger in his voice. I swallow. “I’m here.” No more delaying.
Some sheets rustle in the background and I think Beau’s sitting up. I have his attention. “At the hotel, here?”
“Yes.”
“Well, come on up. Do you remember the room number?” The bed springs squeak as he gets out of the bed.
“I’m trying. But there’s a man down here who’s protecting your virtue or maybe all the hay you put in your safe and he won’t let me up.” Maybe I have one more joke in me.
“I’m coming down. Don’t leave,” he says sternly.
