She rolled her eyes. “You know I’m not going to fall in love with you, right?”
I booped her nose with my finger. “I’ll enjoy making you eat those words, cupcake.”
5
AUTUMN
MACHIAVELLI AND MIMOSAS
“Room service!”
I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and stretched under the plush hotel sheets.
The person on the other side of the door knocked again. “Room service!”
Had I ordered room service in my sleep? Maybe they had the wrong room number.
“Just a second,” I called out as I pawed around for the robe and slipped it on.
My hair was wild, sitting in a cloud on top of my head as I padded to the door and glanced through the peephole.
A hotel employee was on the other side of the door with a covered cart.
“Good morning,” I said as I cracked the door open. “I think you might have the wrong room. I didn’t order room service.”
The guy looked at a little card that was nestled between covered dishes. “Willow Winslet?”
That was odd. I booked the room under my legal name, not my pen name.
“That’s me . . . but I didn’t order anything.”
The guy nodded. “Your boyfriend called the front desk and ordered it for you. It was charged to him, not to the room.”
Boyfriend.
Breakfast.
I growled under my breath.Ryan.
The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. A woman carrying an ostentatious bouquet of peonies stepped out.
I had a feeling I knew which room she was looking for.
“Willow Winslet?” she asked as she squeezed in beside the room-service attendant.
“That’s me,” I said with a groan as I reached for the vase. “Give me a second, and I’ll grab a tip.”
“Not necessary,” the woman said. “It’s already been taken care of. Have a nice day.” And with that, she headed back to the elevator.
I gave the room service cart a forlorn look and stepped out of the way so he could push it inside. “Um . . . I guess I’m having breakfast here this morning. Let me guess—your tip has also been taken care of already?”
The room service attendant made quick work of getting the cart set up. “Yes, Ms. Winslet. Have a good day.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled as I set the flowers on the desk where my laptop was set up.
The silver domes covering the plates and keeping the food warm gleamed as the morning sun danced through the curtains.
I took a deep breath and pulled them off one by one. I wasn’t sure what I expected—maybe boiled rats or liver and onions. But it certainly wasn’t the fluffiest French toast known to man, fruit, eggs, and bacon. It certainly wasn’t a perfectly crafted latte with a heart drawn through the crema and foam. And it certainly wasn’t the plate piled high with salty, golden French fries.
