The hotel lobby is busy tonight, which makes a pang of regret slip to the front of my thoughts. I wish I’d taken the extra hour to explore the hotel when it was still quiet and mostly empty this afternoon.
When the doors to the suite open, that regret lessens with the reminder we still have two nights and a full day here.
“Chloe!” Nessie calls my name from where she’s perched on the couch. “Are you hungry? Tyler made reservations for the steakhouse downstairs.”
I clutch the white bag of beignets that are bleeding grease and promising the same delicious sweetness I experienced earlier. Inside the living room, Chloe is in a bright yellow sundress, but her hair is done for a night of going out. Cooper is on the couch, scrolling through his phone, dressed in a Brighton tee and shorts. “Not really. I feel like I ate my way through the city like The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” I tell her.
She laughs. “You have to make room for something. Tyler says he wants our feedback on the environment and any food we eat.”
“He’s not coming?” My voice goes too high, my relief audible.
Cooper gives me the side-eye. “It wouldn’t kill you to be nice to him.”
“It might,” I answer instead of trying to argue the fact that I have been trying to be nice.
He tries to hide his smile and look annoyed, but I see through him.
“I am nice to him,” I say.
“You’re civil,” Coop argues.
“Civil is nice.”
Again with the side-eye.
“He means you act a little bitchy when you’re around him. Sterile, if you will,” Nessie says.
“Civil and bitchy are on opposite ends of the field,” I point out.
She scrunches her nose. “Not always with you.”
I look at Cooper for him to disagree, but instead, he shrugs.
“How do I come across as bitchy?” I ask.
“It’s not that you’re bitchy, it’s just you aren’t friendly—warm,” Nessie says. “You like your rules and your schedules, and you sometimes get a little … uptight. Rigid.”
“I went out last night. Drank. Danced. Collected beads.”
“For a while…” Nessie says.
The weight of Ricky’s words replay in the forefront of my thoughts: uptight, cautious, serious. Those were some of his favorites to describe me, even from the beginning when he said them with a smile like he thought they were cute and endearing rather than points of contention like near the end of our brief span of dating.
I drop my head back, but before I can arrange my thoughts, the elevator doors open, and Tyler steps into the hotel room, dressed in a white dress shirt and a blazer that highlights the broadness of his shoulders. His dress slacks fit so well I have no doubt they were tailor-made, and his shoes are as stylish as they are expensive. The only thing that’s not perfect is his slightly disheveled hair that looks like he rode up on the elevator doing a scene from a hot romance novel—effectively making the imperfect feature only more perfect. His angular jaw is tight, his blue eyes emotionless. In his hand is a large brown bag with handles.
“Everything okay in the lobby?” Coop asks him.
Tyler steps forward but pauses before he gets too close.
Why am I considered uptight and bitchy, but no one mentions how he comes across as a complete asshole most of the time?
“It was nothing. A misunderstanding with management.” He extends his arm, revealing a shiny, silver watch. “Our reservation’s in an hour. We can go from the restaurant to the club.”
Questions pop into my thoughts about the masquerade club—where it is and what we should wear—but all of them seem to follow the narrative of the old me. The uptight me.
Tyler’s gaze flashes to the bag in my hand. “You made it to Café Du Monde.”
I glance down at the crinkled bag and nod. “Yeah. Thanks for sending a car.”
He nods dismissively. “You should have taken one when you left. Tomorrow, just let them know where you want to go. Someone will take you.”
Would it be rude to say no?
“It was a nice walk,” I say instead.
He nods, and that short spark of interest that I saw when he noticed my bag dies as he excuses himself and heads toward the stairs.
“Double standard much?” I grumble to Nessie as she stands so we can get ready as well.
7
Tyler
Cooper’s story about a sports headline becomes jumbled as the girls step into the living room. At first sight, they’re harder to tell apart tonight. Chloe, who usually stands an inch taller, is the same height as Vanessa, but her hair is down. Vanessa’s is still tied back as it was before they went to get dressed, and she’s wearing a black mini skirt and a black top that nearly causes me to owe an apology to Cooper for checking out her cleavage. Beside her, Chloe’s wearing a dress that looks like sin. It’s made of black lace and keeps tearing my attention to different areas of her body to see if I’m seeing an illusion or skin. Her red lips flash as a warning sign to stop staring.
Cooper lets out a low whistle. “Look at you two clean up.”
Vanessa smiles. Chloe … well, she tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. I want to laugh, assuming this is because of Cooper’s reaction or an annoyance due to something that happened before they came downstairs, but then Chloe pulls in a breath as her eyes track down the front of herself. When she looks back at us, I spot the vulnerability that has her gaze wavering between Cooper and me. She’s uncomfortable. Nervous.
I can’t imagine why or how because she looks like perfection wrapped in lust and tied up with every sexual fantasy.
“We need a picture,” Vanessa says, waving us over. We move in closer to fit on Vanessa’s screen, Chloe doing her best to inch away from me.
Vanessa takes a series of photos before we retreat for the elevator, where the sweet and citrusy scent that
