“I’m Clark. How was your flight?” He takes my suitcase and we walk out of the airport toward the parking garage.
My mind is still spinning from the champagne on board, so I have to refrain from being dramatic and telling Clarke that it was the last sliver of freedom I’ll have for two hundred and forty hours.
“Fine.”
Once we get to his car, he loads my suitcase into the trunk and opens the back door of the luxury Mercedes vehicle.
“It’s about thirty minutes to the Four Seasons,” he informs me after I climb inside and shut the door.
“Okay.”
I realize I’d never gotten an email with my room confirmation, and I spend the next few minutes searching my spam folder. Nothing. Just as my thumb hovers over the button to lock my phone, an email from Doctor Devil comes through.
Francesca,
I assume your flight was okay and that you’re on your way to the hotel. Once you arrive, please come straight to my room. It’s the presidential suite. Reception will be expecting you.
-Dr. Kincaid
I groan as we drive through the city. He can’t even give me a damn minute to decompress in my own room? What could possibly be so urgent that he needs me theinstantI get to the hotel? I’m fully aware of the itinerary for the next ten days, so I know what today entails. It’s arrival day, which means there’san optional luncheon at noon. That’s in thirty minutes, and it shouldn’t requiremypresence as his virtual assistant. I’m also in an old pair of Vans, sloppy black sweatpants, and a matching sweatshirt. I opted for complete comfort because I assumed I’d have time to change.
I’m sure the devil will appreciate my messy bun and makeup-less face.
Screw him.
I’m still seething when Clark pulls up to the Four Seasons, and I instantly resent Doctor Devil for making me so mad that I missed out on seeing the cityscape out the window.
I say goodbye to Clark and just as I turn to face the hotel, three people come up to me. A man takes my bag, another man escorts me to reception, and the third hands me a hot towel for my face, which I gladly accept so that I can look more presentable for my demanding boss. Two receptionists greet me by name, and it surprises me so much that I stop walking momentarily. Fancy hotels and their fancy ways of knowing things…
“We’ll take your bag up,” one of them says, and the other asks me questions about my flight and if I have any dietary restrictions. I say no, and then they hand me a hot chocolate chip cookie.
I could get used to this.
“Right this way, miss,” a man in a fancy bellboy outfit says, pushing my bag on a gilded trolley and gesturing for me to follow him into an elevator marked PRIVATE. “I’ll bring your bag up to Dr. Kincaid’s room.”
“Oh, that’s okay. You can leave it in my room.”
“Very well,” he says politely, and then he uses his fancy key card to send the elevator up to the top floor.
There are only two buttons—one that saysLfor Lobby, and one that saysP, presumably the presidential suite.
“Does the president actually stay here?” I ask, bemused.
“Yes, miss. Many sitting presidents have stayed in this very room.”
“Wow,” I whisper.
Okay, that’s cool, too.
Once the elevator doors open, the panic cuts through all the residual buzz I had going on.
Fuck, I’ve never met Doctor Devil in person, and this is actually happening.
At least as his virtual assistant, I had the option to turn my camera off during a Zoom call if needed, or take a few deep breaths to calm my angry, racing heart after an insulting email. But in person? I can’t be held accountable for my facial expressions. If he pisses me off in real time, there’s a very good chance that I’ll say something equally snarky back.
Either that or I’ll burst into tears.
He’d made me cry several times this year alone, and it’s only March.
