Page 10 of Unlock My Heart

He laughs, the rich baritone causing parts of my body to tingle that I didn’t realize could tingle. “Not fiammetta, but fuoco.”

“Goodbye, drunk stranger. Try sleeping it off.” Walking away briskly, I’m unable to hear whatever’s being said; not that I could understand, as he’s speaking in that foreign language again.

That strange buzzing feeling sticks with me as I clock in, and I give my head a little shake. Joining the clerk that I’m replacing for the day, I flash her a friendly smile. “Hey there. How was your shift?” I ask her in what I hope is my best, I’m a girls-girl tone. The only real friend I had growing up was my twin.

The thought of Oliver has my throat constricting.

“Uneventful, except for the man in Room 201,” she reports, all business. “He’s a huge pain in the ass, just to warn you.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” I wonder if Room 201 is the drunk guy I encountered? Admittedly, he was gorgeous, but the problem is that he knows it.

She grabs her bag and hurries toward the exit. “See you later.”

“See you later,” I call after her, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

Getting the desk situated to my liking, I place my soda on the bottom shelf. When I pop back up, I spot a beautiful woman in her early twenties entering the lobby. Dressed to the nines in a little black dress and killer heels, she struts confidently into the adjoining lounge.

Strange how so many twenty-somethings don’t work during the week, as I’ve noticed this phenomenon every shift. Maybe there are a lot of trust fund babies in this city. Lucky them.

A man in his fifties approaches the desk, and I straighten, flashing a friendly smile. “Welcome to Hotel D’Amico. Checking in?”

“Yes.” He’s wearing an obviously expensive suit, but no luggage. It’s bizarre; a solo man without luggage checked in on my shift yesterday.

“Welcome,” I say with fake enthusiasm. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No,” he says impatiently.

“How many nights?”

“One,” he says, as if I should’ve already known that.

“Do you have a room preference?”

“No,” he says with an annoyed huff.

“Our presidential suite is available.” There’s plenty of other rooms, but if he’s going to be a presidential-sized asshole, he’s getting stuck with the presidential-sized bill.

“How much?” He pulls out a stack of hundreds from his wallet.

“With tax, that brings your total to $2,997.23.”

He counts out three thousand in cash. “Keep the change.”

Gee, thanks.

I key in his payment and open the register, placing my “tip” of $2.77 to the side. Barely enough to cover my next soda.

Activating his key, I slide it over in the envelope with the room number. “Check-out is⁠—”

He walks off.

“You’re welcome,” I mumble under my breath.

Time ticks by with nothing going on, and I finish my soda and stroll to the ladies’ room. Entering the last stall, I let out a very unladylike ahhhh as I take care of business. I’m about to flush the toilet when I hear voices.

“Hey, Chantelle. You clocking in or out?”

“Out,” this Chantelle woman says. “My client had the worst breath, but for five hundred an hour, I just shoved his cock in my mouth instead of greeting him with a kiss.”