“The room certainly isn’t double-booked.” Wilma’s voice is tight and sounds confused.
“Let me see.” Faye averts her eyes, lifting a decorative loupe hanging from her necklace to scan her sister’s clipboard.
Little Miss Poisedshoots me a glance that looks an awful lot likeI told you so.
Sweetheart, you’re in for a rude awakening.
“I don’t understand what’s happened here.” Faye puckers her lips in confusion.
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think this little run-in was planned. But not these two sweet old ladies.
They would never. Except their expressions look anything but innocent.
In about three seconds, my brain runs a full replay of the last ten minutes.
Her confusion
Her irritation.
The complete lack of flirtation.
It lands hard on one undeniable conclusion.
Aw, shit.
She wasn’t here for me.
She thought thiswasher room.
They sentLittle Miss—aw, shit. I can’t nickname her if she’s actually innocent.
Shit.
“I know what’s happened,” Shay says, as if she senses my epiphany. “This man is in the wrong room.”
Wrong.
The hostesses look at each other.
Then they look at the clipboard.
Then they look at each other again.
Fays leans in toward my uninvited guest. “Oh, child, this ishisroom.”
“But you—you said—second door,” her words stutter out. “Second door!” Those last two come out deep, clear, and angry as all hell.
I think we’ve been played here. I want to tellMiss Little—no—no more names.
Shay.
That’s what the voice on the phone called her.
I want to tell Shay what is so clearly evident, but at the same time, do I?
“Second door from the office.” Wilma tucks the clipboard under her arm and takes the floral teacup and saucer. “That’s next door. Your room is actually right next door.”
Shay’s head shakes back and forth, and that topknot bun flips and flops. “You said the second door. You were both very specific. Not the office. The next door. The second door.”
