Page 182 of The Night Shift

Holly: Is everything good? Call me ASAP.

I chuck the phone onto the bed and follow after it, collapsing face-first into the mattress. The white linens smell faintly of detergent and citrus. I have no clue when exactly I fall asleep, but the next time I open my eyes, it’s almost midnight. The room is dark except for the soft glow of my phone screen. There’s still nothing from Cami. There is, however, a whole row of missed calls from April along with three old texts.

April: Pick up your damn phone!!!

April: Need to go over your speech for the rehearsal dinner tomorrow!!!

April: CALL ME!!!

Groaning, I swing my legs off the bed. I check the room for something to eat, but all I come up with is a packet of powdered milk and a single apple. I call the 24/7 room service, but after ten rings and no answer, it’s clear that the “24/7” part is nothingbut a bold-faced lie. It’s too late to go out and I’m too awake and wired up to go back to sleep.

I strip off my clothes and head for the shower instead.

By the time I step out my skin is pink and clean, and I’m wrapped in an oversized white hotel robe, towel-drying my hair and staring at the wall separating Theo and me.

I wonder what he’s doing right now.

I can’t hear anything. He’s probably sleeping. Lying on his back with one arm flung over his face, his black curls falling over his forehead, messy and annoyingly perfect. Is he snoring? No, he doesn’t snore. He sleeps quite nicely, actually. Just the occasional sigh. Peaceful and comfortable. He sleeps like someone with nothing to worry about. Which I guess is a little offensive when he’s sleeping next to me.

I hesitate. Then, moving on pure impulse, I pad over and press my ear against the wall, listening.

Nothing.

No footsteps. No rustling of sheets. No other obnoxious sounds.

Is he even in there?

I pull up his number and decide to send him a text. The two most humiliating words in the texting universe: “You up?”

I’m more than just a little embarrassed when I don’t get a response instantly.

My stomach growls again, demanding attention. I check the time. 11:58 p.m.

Fuck this. He’ll see it when he sees it.

Without much thought, I throw on a pair of jeans and a maroon sweater, grab my keycard, and head out, fully prepared to steal a loaf of bread from the hotel kitchen like some starving, Victorian orphan. The elevator hums softly as it descends to the lobby. When the doors slide open, the place is practicallydeserted. The only sign of life is the receptionist from earlier, slumped at her desk, looking dangerously close to passing out.

I stick to the walls, moving as quietly as possible like a criminal in a bad heist movie. The kitchen is just ahead. I slip through the double doors marked STAFF ONLY and step inside.

I rifle through the shelves, pushing aside plastic-wrapped heads of lettuce and tubs of what looks like mayonnaise. My stomach growls again, loud in the empty kitchen. Where the hell is all the actual food?

Bread. Potatoes. Cheese. Something.

I yank open a metal drawer. Tomatoes. Onions. Useless. Another cabinet with a million cans of beans and what looks like pickles.

“Looking for something?”

I whirl around half expecting Theo, but it’s not. No, it’s that guy from the lobby. He’s standing at the doorway with his arms folded still wearing the same upscale casual outfit from before.

“The kitchen’s closed, you know,” he says.

“I know, I was just —”

“Hungry?” He steps inside and I tighten my grip on the fridge door handle.

He moves past me, crouching to open a lower cabinet I hadn’t checked yet. A second later, he straightens, holding a loaf of bread and a block of cheddar cheese.

“Do you work here or something?”