“Um.”
I’d already said no, but now she wanted me to say yes. Saying yes would put me in a situation where I could at least look at Alex and his handsome face, but it would be torture, too. So I tried again.
“I think I can only get the soak for the time that I scheduled,” I said. Back when I made the reservation, I’d picked ChristmasEve for that soak because I figured everybody else would be with their families and I’d have that rooftop, open-to-the air hot tub all to myself in perfect peace and quiet.
“They’ll reschedule it for you,” she said, sounding absolutely like she knew all about it. “I’ll take care of it personally. That way, you won’t miss out.”
“Um.”
I clasped my phone in both hands and looked at Alex, totally confused. He was smiling at me like he knew there was no way I could say no to his mother. And I guess he was right. The Westmores probably had an in with the staff at The Anchorage and could change reservations willy nilly as it suited them.
“We’ll eat early,” she said. “Dinner’s at six, but Alex said the roads will be clear around three or so? Plenty of time for you to get here before dark.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving up completely.
Alex looked really happy at that moment, so I was glad I had said yes. I’d get a bit more Alex time, for one thing, though I did worry. If the Westmores were at one hotel and I was at another, I’d have to be careful driving on roads that would turn to ice come sunset.
With a shrug, I hung up and put my phone in my back pocket. I’d be ready to go inside of five minutes, and maybe we’d get to Steamboat quick enough so that I could go to my hotel room and simply be alone for a bit before joining the Westmores. Surely there’d be enough time for that.
Chapter 7
I’m a smart guy, I really am. I might have the manners of someone raised by wolves (and I kind of was), but I’m plenty smart. But sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.
Alex and I headed up Rabbit Ears Pass on roads that had been scraped right down to the pavement, and salt and grit spread all around, ruining everyone’s paint jobs. But at least all the ice was gone, and within an hour, we entered the ski town of Steamboat Springs.
The hustle and bustle was going on with lots of traffic, and people in parkas and sturdy boots waiting at every single traffic light. All I wanted to do was get to The Anchorage and plop my ass on a bed. But I had to drop Alex off first, and then join the Westmores for Christmas dinner.
“Which way to your hotel?” I asked.
He gave me the address, and I blinked at him.
“That’s The Anchorage,” I said. The pictures had shown it to be a pretty fancy place, halfway up the hill overlooking the pretty little downtown. There was even a way to pretty much ski from the entrance to the hotel, though I wasn’t into that.
“Yes, it’s The Anchorage,” he said, doing his best to charm me with his smile and his beautiful blue eyes. It was working, but I was still confused.
“Why didn’t you tell me where you were staying when I told you where I was staying?”
He just shrugged.
I guided the Volvo up the hill to where The Anchorage sat, a multi story lodge-looking place. And yeah, I used valet parking because why not?
I tossed the key fob to the valet and dragged out my duffle while Alex grabbed his two leather suitcases. Alex tipped the guy with a ten-dollar bill, making me blink again. He was loaded, sure, but the valet parking was mine to take care of.
With a shrug, I followed him into the main lobby while the valet drove off. There were some people waiting in front of me in line to check in, and then Alex tugged on my arm.
“I got to go buy a phone and call Tokyo,” he said. “Meet us at six-ish at the Antlers. Tell the host you’re dining with the Westmores, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, and watched him dash off.
I’m pretty sure his mother would want to know he’d arrived before any business call took place, but he was the CEO of something-or-other, so mom would have to wait because obviously Tokyo came first. Meanwhile, I stood in line and was soon at the front, my grubby duffle slung over my shoulder, my sticky bun-speckled blue fleece jacket on full display.
“Malachi Beckett,” I said when I got to the fancy-looking reception desk, smiling without any apology for the fact that I did not fit in with the finely dressed rich folk who were standing in line behind me. “I’m here to check in.”
“Welcome, Mr. Beckett,” said the guy. Steve, his nameplate said.
“Call me Beck,” I said.
“Certainly Beck,” he said. Then he consulted with his computer system and handed me two plastic keys in a little cardboard sleeve. I thought that would be it, but he gestured to someone behind me.
