Page 97 of Hard to Resist

She places the parcel in front of me. It’s about eighteen inches wide and tied with string.

“Thanks, Mia.”

She leaves and closes the door behind her. I pull the card free but set it aside unopened. Then I untie the string and fold back the paper.

Inside is a framed sketch of the Hartwell. The artist has drawn the hotel as it looked when it first opened. The original sign hangs over the entrance, old cars line the curb, and a banner stretches across the front. A small crowd stands beneath it.

I know the photo the artist used. It hangs on the wall in my apartment.

Granddad stands just inside the doorway, almost hidden behind two guests. He’s younger than I ever knew him. One hand rests on the doorframe as he watches people enter his hotel.

I sink into my chair and bring the drawing closer. Eric must have taken a photo of the original sometime this week. In less than six days, he found an artist, had the sketch made, and got it framed.

A wide cream mat surrounds the drawing inside a slim, dark wood frame. Everything about it is simple, keeping my attention on the Hartwell.

My eyes fill before I can stop them. I wipe one cheek, then give up when another tear follows. A small laugh escapes as I search my desk for a tissue. People have given me expensive gifts before—jewelry, champagne, and flowers large enough to block the reception desk. None of them has ever meant this much.

I pick up the card.

Rachel,

You’ve let me take over your apartment for the last week. I think it’s time you saw my place.

Arthur will pick you up at seven.

Eric x

It’s hard to believe that only a few weeks ago, Eric sat in the council chamber, certain I would give him access to my service lane. Now he has three suits in my closet, a toothbrush beside mine, and a cat who expects him home every evening.

It should feel too fast, but somehow it doesn’t. Eric has found a place in my life without asking me to make any part of it smaller. That’s why I’ve let him stay.

But for all the nights he’s spent at my apartment, I’ve never seen his house. I know it’s somewhere in the hills. He once mentioned a groundskeeper, so the property can’t be small. Beyond that, I have no idea what to expect.

I look from the drawing to his note and read it again, smiling. Tonight, I get to find out.

At seven exactly, Arthur pulls up outside my apartment. I’ve chosen black trousers, an ivory blouse, and low heels. My hair is down, and after changing my lipstick twice, I ended up wearing the first shade.

Arthur waits beside the Bentley and opens the rear door as I approach.