Page 63 of Puck
She didn’t respond for a moment. Then she heaved a soft, slow, shuddering sigh. “Let’s just get something to eat, have a drink, and go from there.” She turned her eyes to mine. “Better yet, can we just crash, right now? I’m so tired I’m not even hungry. I just want to sleep.”
She pushed past me and angled directly for the bedroom, crawled onto the high four-poster bed, and closed her eyes, fully clothed, shoes on. She was asleep within seconds.
And I couldn’t resist . . . I paused to rip off my boots, and then I climbed up onto the bed with her, spooned up behind her, and closed my own eyes.
I didn’t think it was thirty seconds before I fell into a dead sleep.
* * *
Iwokeup several hours later—a glance at the minimalist digital clock on the nightstand told me it was nearly one in the morning. Colbie was absent from the bed, and I heard a shower going, the bathroom door closed.
My stomach made a growling noise, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept, or what time it had been when we’d arrived here. I’d been in a fog; it was all a blur. We’d dozed on the flight over the Atlantic, but upright airplane sleep doesn’t really count, not like a deep sleep in a real bed.
Point was, it was the middle of the night and I was wide awake and ravenous. I dialed the kitchen on the room phone, got a real person on the other end who seemed a little too eager to send up Scotch and pizza. Colbie took her time in the shower, a luxury she’d sure as hell earned. Even after the shower shut off, the door stayed closed. While she was in the bathroom, a knock on the door finally roused me out of the bed.
I answered the door to find an older woman in a shin-length black dress with a white apron, her hair done in a high, severe bun, wearing sensible sturdy black clogs, the kind chefs and servers wear. She had a food service cart, on which was an absolutely humongous thin-crust margherita pizza, steaming hot and smelling delicious. Also on the tray was a bottle of Yamazaki Scotch, two crystal tumblers, and a silver bucket of ice.
“Thanks,” I said, pulling the tray into the room.
She gave the same shallow upper body bow the other guy had given me and backed away a step. “Is there anything else I can bring you, sir?” she asked, her voice containing a faint Scottish accent.
“No, thanks.” I tilted my head. “You know, a lifetime of living out of hotels has me feeling like I should tip you, but I’m not sure how this whole thing works, here.”
The woman frowned. “I would be insulted if you tried, sir. Mr. Roth pays us handsomely.”
“Oh, well, okay then.” I gestured at the Scotch. “You want a tipple?”
She let out a hint of a smile. “Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t, I’m working. And really, Scotch isn’t to my taste anyway.” She pointed at the bottle. “That’s a gift from Mr. Roth to you, as a matter of fact.”
She lifted it by the neck and presented it to me, sommelier style. “It’s the Yamazaki Fifty-year, two-thousand-five release.”
I eyed the label in disbelief. “No fucking way.”
She handed it to me. “Indeed, sir.” She backed away another step, bowing again. “If that’s all, I shall leave you to it. A good evening to you, Mr. Lawson.”
And then she was gone, and I pulled the cart into the room, cradling the bottle of Scotch in the nook of my arm like it was a baby.
Colbie came out of the bathroom at that moment, her hair damp and brushed back over her head, wrapped up in a thick, plush robe.
She eyed the way I was cradling the booze. “You must really love Scotch,” she said, a laugh in her voice.
“Damn straight,” I answered, “especially when Roth sends me a ridiculously expensive bottle as a thank you.”
She eyed the pizza. “You read my mind. I woke up hungry.”
I guided Colbie to the nearest seating option, a deep, plush, burnt velvet couch arranged in front of a marble fireplace, with matching chairs on either side. She sank into the couch with a grateful sigh, and immediately went after the pizza. I followed suit, sitting down beside her, close but not touching her, pouring us both a glass of Scotch. We devoured the entire pizza in what must have been record time, and we each finished a full glass of Scotch, and we did so without a damn word passing between us, the silence comfortable.
When we were both done eating, we wiped our hands on napkins and sank back into the couch with the glasses of Scotch, sipping, and enjoying not having to be in action or under stress.
Colbie’s eyes were closed, and she squeezed them shut, then blinked them open rapidly, darting her gaze away from me, her chest rising sharply as she sucked in a breath.
Reality was catching up to her, I’d guess.
I shifted a little closer. “Wanna talk about it?” I asked.
Comforting weepy females wasn’t really in my repertoire of skills, but the situation was the situation, and I had to do what I could, even if it was just sit here and pat her back awkwardly like some hapless teenage doofus.
She shook her head, and stared into space for a minute. And then with a sigh, she leaned forward and set the glass down so she could bury her face in her hands.