“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Hey, are…” He trails off as I continue past him with nothing more than the apology. I’m heading in the direction of the elevator before I get caught chatting with my new neighbor. I’m not looking to make friends at the Eaton. I step inside the elevator in time to see his back disappearing into a suite on the opposite side of the corridor.
Geoff isn’t at the concierge desk, so I grab a passing bellboy.
“Excuse me,” I stop him. “Is there any way I can get a screwdriver?”
“Is something broken?” he asks in confusion. I’m guessing your average hotel guest doesn’t ask for a screwdriver.
“I’m in suite six-fourteen, and my father left a drawer locked. He passed away. I’m just trying to sort through his things.”
Maybe it’s too much truth, because he seems to shrink an inch, like he wants to retreat to a safe hiding place. “I’m not certain I should” —
“Is there a problem, Anthony?” Mr. Randolph, the manager, steps in, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. His eyes widen when he glances my direction. “Miss MacLaine. I didn’t know you were staying with us. Anthony, get whatever the lady asked for.”
“But she asked for” —
“Whatever she asked for,” he hisses through his teeth before plastering on a slippery smile and turning back to me. “I’m Mr. Randolph, you may call me”—
“I remember you, Mr. Randolph,” I cut him off before things get too friendly. You don’t forget a man who glued his face to your family’s ass at every opportunity. Randolph will find out I’m staying here, so I might as well get this over with. It will be good practice for telling people that my address is changing. “I’m moving into my family’s apartment. I hope that’s not a problem.”
“Not at all!” He looks genuinely pleased at this announcement. Given how his eyes skim down my body, I’m not sure that’s something I should be happy about. “That’s delightful news. We’ll be pleased to have you, and I will be certain the staff understands who you are.”
I guess I won’t have any trouble getting a screwdriver in the future.
“What do you require?” He asks. “I’d be happy to ensure it arrives swiftly.”
There’s no way I’m using the word screw in front of Mr. Wandering Eyes. “There’s a drawer in my father’s desk. He left it locked and I’m trying to sort through his things before I move in.”
“We can call a locksmith,” he suggests.
“I prefer to do it myself.” I shake my head. Forget prefer. I need to do this now. I need answers. I need closure. It feels as though I’ve been standing still for the last five years, and I can’t do it a second longer. I need to free myself from the past, whether that means cutting ties with my brother, walking away from Sterling, or breaking open a stupid locked drawer.
Anthony returns with a Philip’s head screwdriver and hands it to me reluctantly. His eyes dart to his boss.
“A flathead would be better. I don’t want to damage the wood.” I pass it back to him and smile apologetically. Anthony forces one in return and leaves to find the correct tool.
“Perhaps Anthony can help you?” Mr. Randolph suggests. “I would hate for—”
“That’s unnecessary,” I back up a few steps, hoping he doesn’t follow me. “Thank you.”
“Once you’re settled, perhaps we could have dinner,” he suggests before I can make a clean getaway.
“Um, sure.” I have no idea why I agree, even superficially.
“To acquaint you you with our services,” he adds, reading the skepticism on my face. “As one of the Eaton’s oldest patrons, it’s the least we can do to welcome you.”
“That will be nice.” I force myself to say. Something occurs to me then. Mr. Randolph has always been the type to show up at the table when my family is dining at the hotel restaurant. He’s present for every function we’ve attended in the hotel ballroom. He’s got an over-inflated sense of self-importance and a serious obsession with being close to the wealthy elite of Nashville. That means he might remember why my father bought the apartment in the first place. “Do you know how long the apartment has been in my family?”
“I don’t recall,” he says. “But I’ll look into it and we can discuss it over dinner.”
“Of course.” And like anyone who spends their time worming into the upper rungs of society, he knows he needs to be important to stay there. He’s not going to tell me anything until he gets his reward. That’s a problem for another day.
“Well, I better head back. I have a lot to sort through.”
Like years of emotional baggage.
“Do call down if you need help,” he says. “I’ll make sure someone gets you the proper tool for the job.”
“Thanks.” I can’t say I like the sound of that. Mr. Randolph must see me as another way to get in with the Valmont crowd. I’m just another heiress in his eyes. If he only knew. It’s not as though I’m too helpless to jimmy open a locked drawer. I learned the fine art of getting past a lock in my early teens, back when my parents bothered to lock up the booze. My mother’s idea. My father, like most of the other Valmont parents, could have cared less about what me or my brother was doing with their friends. I’ll get dressed, go to the store, and get one along with some basics: a change of clothes, toiletries, a toothbrush. At least then I can avoid returning to Windfall for a few days.
Chances are that I don’t even need a stupid screwdriver to open the drawer. I’m brainstorming other ways to get the drawer open as
