Not a word.
Instead, his fingers tighten on my arm as he turns and begins walking.
Taking me with him.
“Porter,” I protest, stumbling to keep up, “what are you doing?”
He guides—no, escorts—me right back through the lobby.
Past the front desk.
Through the enormous archway into the Belicourt’s grand hall, where the chandeliers glitter overhead like a sky full of stars.
My confusion only deepens.
“How did you do that?” I demand, half jogging beside him.
Still nothing.
He keeps walking.
Straight into the bar lounge.
My irritation spikes.
He steers me to the far end of the bar, where two stools sit tucked beneath the polished wood.
“Sit.”
The word lands like a command.
I stare at him.
Then I sit.
But I do it in a huff.
He lifts two fingers toward the bartender. “Two drafts.”
The bartender moves quickly, already pulling the tap.
Seconds later, he sets the frosty glasses down in front of us.
“Here you are, Mr. Garrison. Let me know if you need anything else.”
Mr. Garrison.
The name rolls around in my head.
Porter gives him a polite nod. “Thanks.”
The bartender drifts off to help other guests.
The instant he’s out of earshot, I turn to Porter. “What the hell, Porter?” I demand. “Want to tell me how you did that?”
His eyes slide to mine.
They are not amused.
