“Oh,” the clerk said, and his discomfort in the face of Jamie’s tone seemed genuine enough, “that is very unfortunate, but I have to see the identification of everyone who stays in the hotel. It’s mandatory.”
“I just told you I would show you mine instead.”
“Are you staying in the hotel?”
“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” Jamie asked dangerously. “She’s had her identification stolen.”
“Sir,” the clerk’s voice was actually trembling, but Jessica could not help feel he was secretly pleased by this turn of events. “I can’t. Check her in. Without ID.”
“My company booked the room, I’m sure you recognize the name?”
“I do, but—”
“I can give you a generous deposit against any damages.”
“It’s not about damages. It’s a legal requirement. Homeland Security. Medical emergencies. What if, heaven forbid, the hotel caught on fire? Or what if the maid went into the room in the morning, and she was lying there, comatose?”
Was that a dig at the boozy breath? Jessica wondered, narrowing her eyes at him.
“We have to have proof on file of exactly who every person in the hotel is.”
It was just like a scene from that movie. Jessica realized she, most unlikely person to ever be mistaken for a miscreant, was being refused a hotel room. The worst possible thing was happening inside of her, a slow giddy trembling. It was worse than her crying.
Jessica giggled.
Jamie and the clerk both turned to stare at her.
She put her fist to her mouth, but another giggle escaped. And then a snort of laughter. Despite her pressing against her mouth harder with her fist, more laughter.
Okay, it had a hysterical edge to it, enough so that Jamie was staring at her with concern—the Is she going to make a scene? kind of concern—and the clerk with an I knew it expression on his face.
Jamie was suddenly at her elbow, completely composed, guiding her out the door the way they had come in.
They got back in the car that had been waiting for them.
The door whispered shut and she sank into the silence, feeling as if she’d been rescued from a close call with crocodiles.
Jamie was looking straight ahead. His lips were twitching. She couldn’t tell if it was with suppressed amusement or suppressed annoyance.
“I’m sorry,” Jessica said. “I can’t imagine what made me laugh.”
“The cognac?” he suggested.
“Nerves,” she insisted, trying to sound very sober. And then she added, hearing a certain defensiveness in her tone, “I haven’t eaten for quite some time.”
“Maybe just the absurdity of life,” he suggested, rolling his shoulders back. She suspected he much preferred the burst of laughter to her earlier tears. The driver was waiting for instructions, but Jamie was obviously considering his next move.
“My place,” he told the driver, finally.
Jessica felt suddenly and instantly sober. “Your place? I’m not sure. I don’t think—”
“If you can think of some other options, let me know,” he cut her off, his tone reflecting a souring mood. “I can drop you at the homeless shelter, if you prefer.”
He groaned at the horror on her face and tilted his head back against the seat. “Sorry. Kidding.”
Their choices seemed limited, indeed. But, still, his place? It seemed wildly inappropriate.
Though, just under her resistance to the idea, was a shameful curiosity. What did a man like Jamie Gilbert-Cooper live like? She was willing to bet no socks on the floor or dishes in the sink. It would be a rather intimate glimpse into his life. Under normal circumstances, she would not give in to the temptation to know a little more about him. But these were not normal circumstances.
“It will probably be just for tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow, I’ll have someone at the office start to figure out the details of getting your identification replaced. And getting you home.”
He sounded quite eager about that, she thought.
“It’s very kind of you to offer, um, your place,” Jessica said. “I just don’t want to put you out.” She had heard people lived small in New York City. Even very well-to-do people, which he obviously was. Was he going to sleep on the couch? Was she?
“My place is not a studio walk-up in Greenwich Village,” he said, as if he could read her mind. “You won’t be on a roll-out sofa for the night. I think you’ll find it quite comfortable.”
“Oh. It’s just that—”
“You’re concerned about trysts?” he asked dryly. “Dalliances?”
She blushed. “Of course not,” she protested.
He, apparently, was not convinced.
“The perception of trysts? This is strictly business.”
Why would she feel faintly insulted by that—as if he would never even consider a tryst with her! As if she needed to be reminded it was strictly business.
“I can go get a hotel if it would make you feel better,” he offered. “Though I’m just not sure if it’s the best idea to leave you alone. I think we should order some food as soon as we get in, since we’ve determined cognac is not an answer.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to go to any more trouble,” she said, a trifle stiffly. “Just a couple of slices of toast would be fine.”
“I don’t cook,” he said.
She cocked her head at him. She’d been right about no dirty dishes in the sink, then. Still, she had to ask.
“You consider toast cooking?”
“I do.”
“Oh.”
That should have made the differences between them more than apparent—a chasm they could not cross—but she felt, crazily, more curious about his world than ever. Perceptions of trysts aside, she realized she was glad she was going to his place, as if she was a science fiction fan being offered a glimpse into a world that was unimaginable until you had actually seen it with your own eyes.
“What do you think you’d like to eat?”
Toast, she thought stubbornly, but decided not to press the issue. “I bet you can get good pizza in New York City.”
“I’d say the best in the world.”
“My luck is changing!”
He actually smiled at her.
In that smile, she saw something you
