It’s early in our relationship, but I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. When you know, you know.
And we know.
My stomach growls lightly. When was the last time we ate?
I grabbed a protein bar on my way to the hotel last night. We didn’t eat dinner.
I’m hungry. I open the Google app on my phone and search for breakfast places nearby.
I don’t want to go to a sit-down place. The less time we spend on the Chicago streets today, the better. But there’s a bagel place just a few blocks away, one that claims to have bagels that rival New York’s.
I’ll let Bianca be the judge of that. She lived there for the better part of a decade.
I order a dozen assorted bagels along with some cream cheese and butter. The food delivery app says it will be ready in ten minutes. Perfect. Just enough time for me to put some clothes on and walk from the hotel. I scribble a quick note letting Bianca know what I’m up to and leave it on the bedside table.
I open my suitcase on the living area couch—it never made it to the bedroom—and pull out a clean pair of undies, socks, jeans, and a T-shirt. I slip them on and then put on my leather jacket. I call the elevator and the operator brings me to the ground floor.
I pull out the Maps app to figure out which direction to go after I exit the hotel. People always say it’s easy to tell which way is which in Chicago, since Lake Michigan is due east. But it’s hard to see which way the lake is when you’re surrounded by buildings, so I’ve learned not to shame myself for using the tech at my disposal to figure out where the hell I am, even in a city that I’m familiar with.
I pull it up and am charting a route to the bagel place when I run into someone. I drop my phone, and I bend down to pick it up. “Sorry about that,” I murmur.
“You should be. Watch where you’re going.” A man’s voice.
I look up to tell him to watch his tone and my stomach flips. The man I ran into is wearing a charcoal suit with a navy tie pinned into place. Gray mustache and thinning silver hair.
I recognize him too late.
Mr. Rose, the patron at the club who tried to get in my pants Tuesday night.
The night we found the hearts.
The night everything fell into place.
And now he’s here.
Fuck.
The hotel is called The Gilded Rose.
He’s not the owner, is he?
I whip my head to the side, hoping he didn’t see my face.
“Ace?” he asks quietly.
Too fucking late.
I blink a few times, return my gaze to his. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”
Rose chuckles darkly. “Don’t play coy with me, Ace. It didn’t work Tuesday night, and it won’t work now.”
“Sir…”
He silences me with a finger to my mouth. “I thought you weren’t supposed to talk.”
Fuck. He’s not going to think I’m someone else.
“When we’re outside of the club, we can speak,” I mutter.
