What does he think about my dirty attire? No doubt, that I’m some uncivilized barbarian. I twist my hair. I don’t belong here.
He’s probably seen worse, Pell. My inner voice tries to comfort.
Somehow I doubt that. Thank god, I don’t smell like puke anymore.
Harpoc seems oblivious—typical guy—as we stop before the front desk. Of course, he doesn’t look like something mangy that the cat dragged in, like me.
“We’d like a room for the night,” Harpoc tells the woman who looks up from her computer and greets us with a smile.
Her face scrunches up. “I’m so sorry but I’m afraid we’re completely booked this evening.”
Harpoc raises a brow. “That’s unfortunate. Would you mind checking your system just to make sure? Perhaps someone cancelled.”
I glance between him and the woman, then back again. Is he up to something?
The woman starts tapping keys, and I turn around to take in the surroundings.
My mouth drops open as I scan the posh lobby with a view overlooking a spacious blue-water pool and, beyond, the sea already illuminated by lights from shore. This is an expensive place. My stomach tightens, not used to such lavish surroundings. Harpoc’s loaded, he fits in here, but I’m—I sigh—an unemployed archeologist.
Don’t touch anything you can’t afford to pay for, Pell. Mrs. Alden, an ultra-strict caretaker from my formative years, her voice romps through my brain.
A pair of ladies meander across the lobby in fine evening dresses, drinks in their hands. One of them eyes me, then turns up her snout and continues past in conversation with her friend who gesticulates animatedly.
I turn back around.
Lots of tapping of keys later and the woman brightens. “Oh, sir, you’re in luck. It seems one room just opened up. It’s a spa suite on the waterfront, one of our most impressive. Would you like it?”
“We would, thank you.” Harpoc hands her a credit card, then turns to me and wags his brows.
I motion, and he bends down. “What did you do?” I whisper in his ear.
He stands straight. “What do you mean?”
I poke his shoulder; he hasn’t denied it. But we have a room, a top of the line one it seems, for the night, and I’m not complaining.
He turns back to a man he’s been chatting with as the woman works. “That’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“What’ll be fine?”
“Patience, Pell.” His eyes dance.
My stomach quivers. What have I missed?
Harpoc hands me a card key a couple minutes later, and I hold it against the room’s door lock, then push it open when the green light appears.
I suck in a breath. The room’s humongous. I shed my coat in a flash, tossing it on the floor beside a taupe armchair—I don’t want my filthy jacket to dirty it—as I pass, then belly flop, spread eagle across the ginormous bed, my dirty boots hanging off. I can’t help noting that its white bedspread has been tucked with hospital corners—the standard I was forced to adhere to growing up.
Harpoc chuckles. “I take it this will do?”
I roll over, sit up, and grab a string of my hoodie. “It’ll do, I suppose.” I sigh dramatically. “If only the steward had poured us wine.”
Harpoc snorts. “That can be arranged, you know.”
My heart picks up pace as he sheds his duster, adding it to the chair, but I scrunch my nose when I spot the chalky streak, from me, that still mars the front of his vest. He ambles to the wall of sliding glass doors, oblivious to my horror, and eyes the illuminated, private terrace pool beyond.
I’ve only seen him once without his coat, back in Hal and Kaz’s tent. The light was dim at best. But with no impediment now, I appreciate his lithe body, his well-fitting vest, and firm butt.
Pell, get ahold of yourself.
“Why don’t we clean up and take a dip? It’s heated.”
My eyes go wide. “Take… take a dip?”
“That is what it’s there for.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and grins.
“There’s no swimsuits.” I glance about even as I say it, unsure whether I want to see said garments or not.
With that expression, I half expect him to ask why that’s a problem, but instead, he says, “I asked them to send some up for us.”
As if on cue the doorbell rings, and Harpoc goes to answer it.
“Shall I put these away for you?” A uniformed steward, who follows him in, asks. The white-gloved man holds seven gold boxes, stacked nearly to his chin.
“Please,” Harpoc replies.
“Very good, sir.”
“What’s…?” I ask.
Harpoc gives me a wink and holds up a finger, retreating to the glass doors.
My heart pounds as the steward heads into the bathroom. From my perch on the bed, I peer in to see him set the boxes on the counter, open the first, riffle through the tissue paper and pull out a man’s black boxer-style swimsuit.
He lays it out on the nearby dresser, then reaches back in and pulls out a hunter-green, one-piece ladies’ suit that looks to be my size, or close to it.
Harpoc knows my size? I glance at him, but he just keeps tapping a ringed finger against his lips showing no interest in watching the guy. No, he’s watching me, watch the guy.
“How’d you know my size?”
“The concierge guessed.”
“Is that the guy you were talking to?”
“It is.”
“Some man sized me up?” My voice rises.
Don’t pretend you haven’t looked a certain sexy someone over, Pell.
Shut up, I tell myself.
“You did have your jacket on, so we’ll see how accurate his guess is.” Harpoc chuckles.
The steward continues, unboxing a pair of men’s boxer briefs
