Page 9 of 500 First Editions (The Romantics #3)

AUTUMN

MACHIAVELLI AND MIMOSAS

“ R oom service!”

I blinked the sleep out of my eyes and stretched under the plush hotel sheets.

The person on the other side of the door knocked again. “Room service!”

Had I ordered room service in my sleep? Maybe they had the wrong room number.

“Just a second,” I called out as I pawed around for the robe and slipped it on.

My hair was wild, sitting in a cloud on top of my head as I padded to the door and glanced through the peephole.

A hotel employee was on the other side of the door with a covered cart.

“Good morning,” I said as I cracked the door open. “I think you might have the wrong room. I didn’t order room service.”

The guy looked at a little card that was nestled between covered dishes. “Willow Winslet?”

That was odd. I booked the room under my legal name, not my pen name.

“That’s me . . . but I didn’t order anything.”

The guy nodded. “Your boyfriend called the front desk and ordered it for you. It was charged to him, not to the room.”

Boyfriend.

Breakfast.

I growled under my breath. Ryan.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. A woman carrying an ostentatious bouquet of peonies stepped out.

I had a feeling I knew which room she was looking for.

“Willow Winslet?” she asked as she squeezed in beside the room-service attendant.

“That’s me,” I said with a groan as I reached for the vase. “Give me a second, and I’ll grab a tip.”

“Not necessary,” the woman said. “It’s already been taken care of. Have a nice day.” And with that, she headed back to the elevator.

I gave the room service cart a forlorn look and stepped out of the way so he could push it inside. “Um . . . I guess I’m having breakfast here this morning. Let me guess—your tip has also been taken care of already?”

The room service attendant made quick work of getting the cart set up. “Yes, Ms. Winslet. Have a good day.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled as I set the flowers on the desk where my laptop was set up.

The silver domes covering the plates and keeping the food warm gleamed as the morning sun danced through the curtains.

I took a deep breath and pulled them off one by one.

I wasn’t sure what I expected—maybe boiled rats or liver and onions.

But it certainly wasn’t the fluffiest French toast known to man, fruit, eggs, and bacon.

It certainly wasn’t a perfectly crafted latte with a heart drawn through the crema and foam.

And it certainly wasn’t the plate piled high with salty, golden French fries.

I grabbed the note and pulled it out of the little envelope.

Good morning, beautiful.

Did you know that French fry bouquets aren’t a thing? I’ll keep working on that. Meanwhile, breakfast and flowers will have to do. Thinking of you.

-Ryan

What the hell was he up to? I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to let the food go to waste. Still, I didn’t trust it. I had his little twelve-step plan. I’d catch on to the rest of his game sooner or later.

My eyes moved to the silver bucket that held a bottle of champagne. A carafe of deep red juice sat beside it. That’s when I realized it wasn’t champagne.

It was sparkling rosé.

Ryan had given me the fixings for pink mimosas.

I snagged the latte, desperate for the hit of caffeine before I downed a mimosa. This kind of Machiavellianism needed a group dissection.

I grabbed my phone and the French toast and summoned the group chat.

Me

SOS.

Whitney

Is this a DEFCON situation like when Wander fucked Jack for the first time? I don’t remember the number scale of severity.

Wander

Five is normal, one is critical. Is there a scale with an SOS?

Me

For the love of Jane Austen, look.

I sent them a snapshot of the breakfast spread, flowers, and note.

Me

What’s his angle? This isn’t in the twelve-step program.

The phone chimed with an incoming call. Whitney was the first to appear on screen with the bustling bakery behind her. Wander joined mid-yawn and wiggled deeper into her bed.

“Please tell me Jack is not naked beside you and you called us mid-fuck,” I said. “I’m happy for you guys. I love you guys. But I do not need it rubbed in my face that I’m the only one not getting laid and won’t be getting laid for the next three months.”

Wander snickered. “Jack’s on duty today. He left to head to the station an hour ago. But if your bed is feeling lonely, you could always sleep with Ryan. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Whitney had a serious look on her face. “I can’t tell if Ryan would fuck like an absolute animal or if he would think he’s doing a great job and he’s really just rubbing some poor girl’s labia raw.”

Wander yawned. “I’m going with ‘fucks like an animal.’”

“Me too. He seems like he’d take his time,” Whitney agreed.

I didn’t want to chime in that I, too, thought Ryan would fuck like a god. That would give the girls way too much ammunition, even if the jokes were kept private.

And there was the fact that I didn’t want to admit that notion to myself.

“That French toast looks so good,” Whitney said as she studied the picture. “I wonder if I could have the pie shop make a French toast pie.”

I groaned. “Please. I’ll drive up and be your taste tester before I head out of town.”

“Have you figured out where you’re going next?” Whitney asked.

“No. I had to cross off Idaho because none of the rentals in the area I wanted to go to had uninterrupted availability for three months. I might try again for the stint after this one.”

Wander cocked her head. “Aren’t you tired of moving around all the time? I thought you loved California.”

Not that I wanted to admit it to the girls or Ryan, but I had left California because I was tired of searching for what Whitney and Wander found.

The ring.

It was a life-altering moment to realize that I had been living in a holding pattern, simply waiting for the right man to come into my life. I went on as many dates as I could. I kept my apartment clean and cute outfits on deck in case fate decided to drop him into my life.

And I was miserable.

So, I sold everything that didn’t reasonably fit in my car, ended my lease, and hit the road.

It had been jarring enough to get me out of the funk. My books started to get more interesting. I grew more comfortable being alone. I went out to dinner by myself in Maine. I went on hikes alone in West Virginia. I did painting classes in Washington. I went out on the town in Las Vegas.

The more I spent time with myself, the more I fell in love with her.

But the longing for him never went away.

I didn’t know who he was yet, but I hoped that he was falling in love with himself, too.

“I’ll settle down when I find somewhere I want to be for more than three months. I always get the bug to move when the book’s done.”

“Okay, question,” Whitney said. “What’s the deal with the French fries? No judgment, but it’s not exactly breakfast food.”

I snagged one and bit into it. “We had this banter-y text about me killing Wander and French fry bouquets for the funeral.” I took a screenshot of the text messages between Ryan and me and sent it in the group chat.

Wander clapped her hand over her mouth. “That man is down bad for you, Wills!”

I rolled my eyes. “He’s trying to win a bet. He’s not trying to win me.”

“Hey, you’re getting breakfast and mimosas out of it. Not a bad way to come out of putting your foot in your mouth on stage,” Whitney said.

At the mention of mimosas, I grabbed the bottle of sparkling rosé, popped the cork, and took a drink straight from the bottle. “Thanks for the reminder, Whit.”

The social media hysteria had simmered down, but it still bubbled right at the surface, waiting for some nugget of information to make it boil.

But I wasn’t going to say a peep about this little arrangement with Ryan. I certainly wasn’t going to admit to falling in love with him at the end of three months. I’d just have to figure out how to let the masses down gently.

The public loved to root for a love story, but it wouldn’t be mine.

This wasn’t a love story. It was a business arrangement.

I detested being on social media, but it was a necessary evil for my line of work.

Generally, I avoided it as much as possible, but the last few days had taken that privilege away from me.

No matter how much I was asked in comments or messages, the answer was always the same: I am not ready to publicly share information about my involvement with Ryan at this time.

It was polite, to the point, and firm.

“So, what’s his angle?” I asked as I poured the rosé into a champagne glass and added a drop of cranberry juice so that it could be considered a mimosa with breakfast instead of pathetic day-drinking.

“The flowers are sweet and definitely say, ‘romance,’” Wander said.

“The food was thoughtful, but the fries and rosé are him recalling things he’s heard you say,” Whitney said. “Which is super cute and falls under week one of the Ford Method.”

Wander nodded in agreement. “The note is the same—it’s him recalling previous conversations to show you he’s listening, while also giving you an opening to text him something other than ‘thank you.’”

“What’s wrong with saying, ‘thank you?’” I asked.

Whitney grimaced. “Nothing specifically. It just doesn’t keep the door open for other conversations.

Him saying that he’ll work on the French fry bouquet is a conversation point he’s hoping you’ll latch on to.

Morning, beautiful and thinking of you are him being sweet, but also not putting pressure on you to reciprocate.

If you watch the additional resource videos he has attached to the week one challenge, he talks about communication that encourages reciprocity, and communication that doesn’t put pressure on reciprocity.

He says that, in the beginning, it’s best to do a sandwich of the two—no pressure, a nugget to reply to, and then no pressure. ”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why does this feel like you two are coaching me in dating rather than helping me beat him?”