Night shifts black

Day Nine.

I push through the door in anticipation, my eyes sca

“He was here this morning,” she begins in a low voice.

I nod, concerned, waiting for the report.

“Didn’t stay or anything, just came in and gave me this.”

She pulls a small envelope from the pocket of her uniform and hands it to me. Shocked, I stare down at the artistic handwriting, beautiful from a distance, but actually hard to read when I look closely. It’s clearly my name, however, and sparks of nerves begin to flare through me.

“I texted you as soon as I could. It was only a little over an hour ago that he was here.”

I smile and thank her, wanting to be polite but eager to escape with my treasure. She only shrugs, and it occurs to me that, as crazy as this whole drama seems to me, it’s probably not the strangest thing she’s had to deal with as a restaurant server in this city. I determine to give her a very generous tip if I ever eat here again.

For now, I nearly run from the restaurant and drop to a bench outside, not even able to wait until I return to my apartment to read the note. I pull the paper from the sealed envelope and am surprised by the indentation of the script pressing through the backside of the folded paper. There doesn’t seem to be enough text hidden underneath to be worth the effort of this exchange, and I’m almost disappointed. Until I open it.

Shocked, I stare at the address for a moment, completely numb. It’s a hotel, one of the top ones in the city, complete with a room number and the word, “anytime.”

I stare at it in silence, trying to interpret this surprising turn and not explode from anticipation. Somehow, I instinctively know this isn’t about sex. This isn’t an invitation from a lonely rock star to a desperate fangirl. This is a broken man reaching out to the only person he thinks might be willing to understand.

I move to the curb and flag a cab. Walking would be cheaper, but much longer, and right now time is more important than money. It’s not a far drive, and I tip the driver more than necessary so I don’t have to wait for change.

I’ve never been in this hotel before. Seen it, of course, with its massive columns and intricate stonework. Its handsome valets stationed at the entrance, greeting the wealthy, famous guests who don’t blink at the ridiculous suite rates.

It’s incredibly obvious to all of us that I don’t belong, and it takes a moment for me to collect the courage to ignore the doormen’s indignant stares as they’re forced to open the vault for someone who clearly has no business going inside.

Once I’m beyond the gatekeepers, I forget all about their snobbery as I take in the majesty of this royal dreamland. Gold, tapestries, rich woods, velvet, art, flowers, statues, wealth. Everywhere wealth, status, celebrity.

I’m almost surprised Luke would choose this place, given his desire to escape everything it stands for, until I realize, it’s not about that. He’s a flashing neon sign in Jemma’s Café but practically anonymous here, surrounded by the subjects of the other magazine pages and gossip websites.

I sense the disdain around me, mostly from the hotel employees, not the guests themselves who don’t even notice me, but try not to let it get to me.

I’ve just spotted the elevator and started moving toward the welcomed escape route, when my path is blocked by a woman in a stu

“Excuse me, ma’am. May I help you?” she asks in a tone that indicates her “help” will most likely involve guiding me back to the exit.

I force a smile. “I’m here to meet a friend. Room 403.”

Her look doesn’t remotely hide her skepticism. “I see. Well, please wait here for a moment. I will call ahead and make sure your friend is available. I’d hate for you to waste your time.”

I struggle to hold in my glare, but am impatient to see Luke and don’t want to jeopardize my journey any more than necessary.

“Of course, thank you. You can tell Luke it’s Callie.”

It seems to surprise her that I have a name. That I use it so freely. That I speak his with such confidence.

She nods and thanks me. I wait awkwardly as she crosses to the main desk and directs the polished hostess to make the call. The girl looks over at me as well, and I almost would have preferred their blatant disrespect to this fake deference.

She picks up the phone and dials. Business Suit Woman waits beside her, watching me carefully, as if afraid I’ll run into the elevator and contaminate the fourth floor with my poorness.

After a few seconds, someone must pick up on the other end because the girl starts talking. She looks surprised. She glances back at me and then at the other woman. She hangs up the phone and says something to the other woman who purses her lips and forces a tight smile. She heads back toward me, and I suck in my breath as I await the verdict.

“Thank you for your patience. Mr. Craven is waiting for you. Please let me know if I can be of further assistance.”

I want to laugh at her, but manage to reduce my penalty to a polite thank you instead. Forcing that sentence from her mouth was punishment enough. Besides, all I can think about is Luke, waiting for me, wanting me here. Finally, inviting me into his life.

The elevator seems to take forever. I think maybe it’s because it’s old, but then realize it’s probably just me and my impatience. I wish I’d taken the stairs when I notice the other guests tipping the uniformed boy who saved them from the gross inconvenience of having to push a button. I nearly grunt when I hand him a bill as well, and step onto the thick, soft carpet of floor Four.

I begin sca

Luke’s suite is the furthest from the elevator, and I stand before his door for a moment, still in disbelief that I’m here. This moment doesn’t seem real, and I think back to his comment once about feeling like you’re living someone else’s life. Maybe this is what he meant. Finally, my hand rises and knocks, my stomach fluttering and heart pounding in my ears. I try to remember it’s only Luke. Rye toast, orange marmalade, Luke.

I hear scraping at the door and force myself to breathe. Then, it all falls away. It really is just Luke.

Our eyes meet and his smile brings me right back to pancakes at Jemma’s.

“You came,” he says, and I have no idea why he’s surprised by that.

“Of course I did. Is that an invitation to come in?”

He shakes his head, almost embarrassed. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.” He steps aside so I can enter, and I notice his relaxed look is incredibly sexy today. I hate that such a thought pollutes the moment. It’s not fair to him.

“I came right from the café. I’ve been worried about you.”

He nods and moves some papers aside so I can sit on the couch in the living area. The suite is as impressive from the inside as it is from the outside, but I don’t spend much time on that fact. Instead, it occurs to me that even though he lives here, it doesn’t look like he does. Other than the newly formed pile on the coffee table, I don’t see any immediate evidence that this room is occupied.