I don’t want her to regret her decision.
Which is why instead of going downstairs to the bar, I open my laptop.
Almost instantly, my phone buzzes.
Parker:
I can feel you working. STOP. Go have a drink. Flirt. Be twenty-four. Work will always be there. The handsome stranger you might meet won’t.
I laugh at how well she knows me.
I can’t deny that a glass of winedoessound good.
So despite everything Ishouldbe doing right now, I follow my boss’ order and close my laptop.
The lobby is straight out of a holiday movie. Twinkling fairy lights wrap around the exposed beams overhead. A towering fir tree glows with gold and red ornaments. Garlands of pine drape over the mantle of the oversized fireplace, filling the space with the crisp scent of evergreen. There’s even soft instrumental carols playing in the background, subtle enough not to annoy the non-holiday crowd.
My marketing brain immediately starts cataloging everything. The balance between opulence and comfort. The warm lighting. The curated scents.
But then I catch myself.
No working, Claire. Remember?
But turning off my brain is like trying to stop a freight train. Hopefully, a glass of wine will help.
The bar is nestled in the corner, a cozy blend of historic charm and modern sophistication. Brass sconces cast warm pools of light over wooden barstools. Glass shelves gleam behind the bar, displaying bottles like trophies. A fireplace crackles quietly in the corner, surrounded by low tables where votive candles flicker gently beside half-full glasses.
I take a seat at the bar and order a glass of cabernet. The bartender returns quickly with my wine. After snapping a photo of the glass against the elegant bar top, I send it to Parker.
Me:
Happy?
Parker:
So proud. Now drink up.
I lift the glass, letting the familiar aroma invade my senses before taking a sip. Warmth trickles through me — berries, oak, the faintest hint of spice. I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it for two whole seconds before someone slides into the seat beside me.
“You look familiar.”
His voice is smooth.Toosmooth.
I glance at him and recognize him instantly. Not for anything good, though.
I overheard him earlier bragging to a group of men about how conferences are “a prime hunting ground.”
His eyes rake over me. Slowly. Hungrily.
“You were at the conference, weren’t you?”
I nod politely and shift away, hoping the chill in my expression is enough of a hint.
It’s not.
He leans closer, taking a sip of his drink. “Crazy weather, huh? Guess we’re all stuck tonight. Could be worse ways to pass the time, though.” He leers at me again, his gaze landing squarely on my chest.
“I’m actually waiting for someone,” I lie.
