Page 9

The staccato melody chirping from my phone does little else than piss off my already throbbing temples. I bury my face in the pillow, trying to drown out the daylight creeping through the window. How much did I drink last night?

Oh shit, last night…

With a jolt, I pop up onto my elbows as the previous night’s events flood back with a sloppy mix of pleasure, guilt, and horror. The bed next to me is mussed, but empty. Dalton’s coat and dress shirt are missing from the chair.

With a sigh, I smash my face back into the pillow. Fuck. Did that really happen? My phone chimes again, forcing me to roll toward the nightstand, ready to fling the offending device against the wall in protest, but the second I open my eyes, I freeze.

The tiny coffee maker has been moved to the nightstand, happily burbling a fresh mini pot. Next to it are two bottles of water, a single pack of aspirin, and a note on the hotel’s notepad that no one ever uses. I blink twice before the words settle in.

Our date starts promptly at 10 am. See you in the lobby for check-out. - D. Followed by a freaking winky face.

The vague memory of not exactly saying no to the charming man snuggling me last night comes crawling back.

The man who brewed me coffee, left me hydration, and a cure for the current pounding headache.

Every alarm in my brain screams. I’m in way over my head.

Last night was unprofessional, messy, and so was not me.

I slide a palm over my face, fingers kneading each eye.

My phone goes off again, and the custom sound finally registers.

Ramona is texting me. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!

I glance at the screen. Correction, she texted several times.

Refusing to read what might be my ass getting canned just yet, I crack open a bottle of water and slam it along with the two aspirin.

Then sitting up and patting down my epic bed head—like looking less nearly sexed and hungover will somehow save my ass from potential bad news—I swipe open the messages.

There are six messages from her sent in rapid succession.

Holy shit, last night was fire!

Biggest donation total in the event's history AND rumor is Ellie Edwards was there. WTF how did I not know this?! Did you see her?

It’s all over TMZ this morning. No photos damnit but rumors were enough to sell out the remaining seats at the LGBTQ+ next week.

You’re officially off duty for filling seats.

Also, the new gig is ours. Got the contract this morning, said they were impressed with last night’s marketing. All you, kid.

Talk raises on Monday, take the weekend off. U earned it!

Thumbing to the news feeds, I run a quick search for Ellie.

Her face is plastered everywhere in association with the auction, but the photos are pulled from older sources.

No tattooed dark-haired mess jobs. There’s also no mention of drunken escapades or her connection with Dalton.

Just a few snip-its about her bidding anonymously to support local charities.

Damn, her publicist is good. I fire a quick message back to Ramona.

YOU did a great job last night and congratulations on landing the gig. Excited to hear the details. Thank you for the opportunity and weekend.

The phone plops onto my lap, and I’m not sure if I want to scream with joy or vomit. How my indiscretions went unnoticed by Ramona last night is a miracle. Only slightly more impressive is that the drunk and screaming version of Ellie Edwards managed to stay out of the tabloids.

The coffee maker burbles again in steamy protest. I stare at the card from Dalton, then glance at the clock.

It’s eight thirty-seven. If I shower and get my ass moving, the possibility of escaping without crossing paths with Dalton is higher.

He doesn’t have my number and I never fully agreed to go on this date.

So I could ghost him. I should ghost him.

A total dick move, but a self-preserving one.

Last night, I got lucky that no one noticed us.

Going out with him in public today seems like tempting fate to bite me in the hungover ass.

I take longer in the shower than is smart, washing off the lingering headache and memory of Dalton’s lips on my skin—on my nipples specifically. I tap the handle cooler, hissing when the icy water hits my skin. Down, girl.

Throwing on a pair of white linen pants and a professional black tank, I twist my hair into a braid while starting remote checkout.

The less time I have to spend in the lobby, the better.

At least in this getup, the fancy red dress-wearing sex kitten from last night looks nothing like the professional boss-girl-next-door style I’ve curated for work events.

Even if Dalton passes me downstairs, he might not recognize this professional version.

Still, I don’t want to risk testing that theory.

Pressing an eye to the peephole, I slink out into an empty hall, careful to shut the door without so much as a click and at nine-ten on the dot, the elevator doors ding open onto an almost empty lobby.

I’m halfway to the door guarded by a dapper doorman when a whiff of fresh bagels teases my nose.

My stomach growls in response. The burger last night feels like a lifetime ago.

The free breakfast buffet—which is just a glorified smorgasbord of carbs, coffee and a few sad pieces of bacon—is still open, beckoning any poor, hungover soul wandering the lobby.

AKA me. I left the coffee Dalton made burbling sadly on the nightstand, way too guilty to drink it.

I can’t ghost a man and drink his peace offering.

Waiting at home is one questionable brown banana, two sticks of butter, creamer but no coffee beans, a half-eaten box of cereal but no milk and a box of power bars.

Like the true glutton for work that I am, I skipped grocery shopping this week to help Ramona get ready for the event.

With a quick glance around the still quiet lobby, I dart for the carb line.

Snagging half a plain bagel, I slather on cream cheese, not bothering to toast it and pour a not nearly large enough cup of coffee, barely taking the time to snap on the flimsy lid.

This should at least hold me until I can get to the store and restock.

Food shopping while hungry always creates a cart full of unnecessary shit accompanied by a shame inducing bill.

With one more glance toward the elevators, still shut tight and quiet, I hike the bag up higher on my shoulder and double fist my breakfast toward the exit.

Murmuring a thank you to the doorman, I pause under the awning to get my bearings.

With last night’s guests holding varying pedestals of celebrity statuses, there’s a crowd of paparazzi gathering.

Ramona probably called half of them for the press coverage, but thankfully, she also respects the fact that some of our patrons want anonymity.

Hence, the temporary privacy fence blocking off the hotel’s porte-cochère, keeping the camera-wielding vultures at bay.

One only has to step out toward the public street to make a quick appearance in tonight’s headlines.

Which I have zero intention of doing, so I eye the side exit.

The nearest train station is three blocks up?—

“Had a feeling you might bail. Good thing I checked out early.”

I clamp my jaw down on the shriek that’s tearing up my throat, while the rest of me jolts at the unexpectedly close voice.

Both coffee and bagel bobble from my grip, flying in near slow motion from my flailing hands.

The coffee hits the ground first, lid flying off and spewing the over-creamed liquid up my left pant leg, followed by the bagel, which plops unceremoniously, cream cheese side down on the filthy sidewalk.

I stare for a heartbeat in shock, mourning my sad little breakfast before rounding on the ass who startled the shit out of me.

Dalton has enough sense to look both ashamed and apologetic under my narrowed glare.

I should be embarrassed, caught in the act of ditching him, but the loss of my breakfast overrides any lingering remorse.

“Seriously?” I gesture to the bagel now decorating the pavement.

“Well, that wasn’t one of my smoothest moments.

Looks like I owe you dry-cleaning and a breakfast along with today’s events.

” Dalton peels himself off the building’s marble facade, offering me the napkin wrapped around his unharmed coffee cup.

One glance at my stained pant leg and he seems to think better of it.

This is more of a towel kind of spill than a one napkin situation.

Instead, he leans over and picks up the once sad attempt at breakfast that now looks downright depressing.

As he flips over the bagel, a cigarette butt pokes out of the schmear.

Gross. The hotel’s doorman is there in an instant, trash can in hand.

Dalton drops them in, flashing me an impish smile.

He then eyes my bag. “Sorry about that. Do you have another pair of pants in there, or do we need to make a stop and pick up something?”

Words finally find their way back to my mouth. “ We’re not doing this.”

“You didn’t say no.” He steps closer, a dark smoldering in his gaze that wasn’t there a second ago.

And now, I’m thinking about his body over mine, his lips, his teeth, his tongue. Of course, I wanted to say yes last night, to all the things. The date, his hands on me, his cock between my thighs, a night of good sex. Yes was the word of choice. Just not the responsible one.