“It’s the last one. The last call,” said Alex.
I turned to look at him. He was already on his phone, hurrying out of the room, totally focused on business.
Not my circus, not my monkeys. In the general hubbub, I slipped out of the room and hurried out of the restaurant and across the lobby to the elevator to the penthouse.
It was only when the doors closed I could see nobody was following me. Good. Fine. It was better this way. I’d spend Christmas Eve with my lonely self, skulk about the hotel for a few days, and then drive home.
And that would be that. Christmas for Bad Boy Beck was already miserable, so why should this one be any different?
Chapter 8
By the time I got back to my fancy penthouse suite, I was wiped out. I wasn’t shy or retiring, but I didn’t much care for crowds, and I’d felt so fucking out of place at the Westmore’s Christmas Eve dinner, every part of me felt like it’d been wrung through the wringer.
The first thing I saw when I got back into the room was that there was a fancy basket, wrapped in gold-shaded cellophane. It had fruit and nuts and probably chocolate, too, and were those Christmas cookies? I was still full from dinner, but I ripped the basket open and shoved that cookie in my mouth. The sugar was so fine, the whole thing started to melt in my mouth.
Then I saw the expensive piece of paper with a phone number on it so I could schedule my hot tub session. Could I get them to send up a couple of drinks as well?
A few hours ago, I wouldn’t even have thought of it, but now, now I knew. The Westmores owned the hotel (and dozens like it, all over the world), so I, being their guest, could do whatever I liked. Have whatever I wanted. When I wanted it.
Old me would have run screaming through the halls buck naked, on account of I basically had a get-out-of-jail-free card on file. New me, well, I thought about doing that very thing,and while I smiled at the ruckus it would cause, I thought about Alex and his beautiful smile and the kindness in his eyes. The kindness in all of their eyes, sparkling with the joy of Christmas.
Yeah, I could sayBah Humbugwith the best of them, but I pulled out my phone and dialed that number, fast.
“This is Jane at reception. Can I help you?” asked a polite female voice.
“Hey, Jane,” I said with my best, sexiest drawl. I find that women with names like Jane and Betty give the best head, so I knew it paid to be extra polite and stuff. Just in case there was an offer happening. (Sometimes, yes, I’ve slept with women. I like to keep things spicy and different!)
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“I’m in one of the penthouse suites on the eleventh floor,” I began, having no idea what my room number was. “I’ve been told I can schedule my hour in the hot tub, and can I have drinks sent up?”
In the back of my mind, I really felt like I’d left it too late, and that the Westmores didn’t have that much control over as much as they acted like they did and that Jane was going to turn me down flat. No hot tub beneath the stars for me.
“Is this room 1115?” she asked. “Am I speaking to Malachi Beckett?”
“Call me Beck,” I said.
“Beck,” she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “We can schedule you for two hours, actually, starting at nine o’clock. Will that work?”
“I only paid for one hour?” I said, my voice rising, because once again I was wrong and I already knew the truth. The Westmores (Jasmine, probably) had phoned ahead to give the staff the message:Take care of Beck.
“Your Soak and Stars package has been upgraded. You’re now getting as many hours in the rooftop hot tub as you like,and I’m ready to schedule the Massage and Sauna package for whenever you might be available this week. Plus there’s?—”
No. Just no. I do not do massages where I strip to the skin so a stranger can touch me. Where I grew up, that kind of behavior, well, you might as well stick your head beneath an executioner’s blade so you can get your head chopped off.
Sure, I let people touch me, but I had to know them. Alex had been the exception to that. For some reason, he’d felt different. The energy he’d given off had been different, and so I’d willingly let him get his hands all over me, pretty much from the start.
She rambled on for a bit, something about getting ski and snowshoe equipment for free, a nighttime sleigh ride through the woods, complete with dinner in a heated tent. Meals in my room. Nightly turndowns.
I leaned back a bit to see that yes, someone had come into my room while I’d been with the Westmores and turned down the freaking bed. An invasion of privacy that old me would have been pissed off about. As for new me, yeah, I was a bit irritated, but since it was a thing the Westmores did in their fancy hotel, I was just going to have to put up with it.
“Let’s just do the hot tub for two hours,” I said. A little overwhelmed? Yeah, that was an understatement.
“Certainly, sir. I’ve got you booked. You take the penthouse elevator to the rooftop. The key code to get in is your room number, followed by your last name. There’s a heated changing room, complete with a robe, slippers, and towels.”
“Can I—” I stopped and revised the question in my head. “Can you send up two double G&Ts, please?”
“Two doubles?” she asked, doubt clear in her voice.
