The lobby smells like stale air. The hallway has seen better days, judging from the worn carpet and walls that smell of cigarette smoke.When we reach my door, I unlock it and walk inside, flipping on the light.
Cockroaches scatter. The ancient mini fridge hums too loudly, and the bedspread looks like someone just got off it.
Finn walks into the tiny bathroom, then returns.
I keep all my things in the roller luggage, and my go-to bag is zipped to prevent bugs from nesting in it.
“Come on,” Finn says, bending over and picking up my go bag. He tosses my duffel over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Ray booked it,” I mutter as he moves to step outside. “It’s fine.”
He stops and gives me a look. “Kate, the towels are crunchy. The carpets are threadbare, and bugs run around like they own the place.” He looks me dead in the eye, “And they do!”
I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“My wife deserves better. I’ll talk with your manager tomorrow.”
Is it wrong that I love how he says, “My wife,” like I’m important?
It happens so fast. One minute, we’re arguing over the next steps in a room still smelling like a drug den. The next?
I’m letting him handle the situation. I’ve decided to pick my battles, and I can easily give in on this one. The roomisdisgusting.
Then, he’s typing on his phone and looks at me to ensure I’m on board.
I’m dying inside, mortified at how bad the room is, and that this is normal for me. I’m sure he can’t wait to leave this hellhole. I grab my roller luggage and my traveling guitar and follow him to the lobby.
Within minutes, a black SUV rolls up like it owns the road. Ten minutes later, we’re pulling into the circular drive of a five-star hotel I’ve only seen in TV commercials.
I stare at the valets dressed in sleek uniforms, and they open doors like MI6 has trained them. A bellhop appears from nowhere to grab my single bag—my ratty, overused, slightly-busted duffel—and suddenly I feel like a fraud.
I glance down at my scuffed boots and my skimpy dress from the performance, thinkingI don’t belong here.
Finn notices how I’m shrinking, and he leans over. “You belong wherever you want to belong. Got it?”
I swallow hard and nod, even though I don’t believe it.
The lobby is a cathedral of wealth—marble floors, glass chandeliers, fresh flowers that probably cost more than a month’s salary. Finn leads the way to the elevator and presses the PH1.
I have no idea what that even means. But when he opens the door, I gasp.
Inside, it’s stupidly beautiful. Giant windows overlook the city skyline. There are plush couches. And a bed that looks like it could swallow me whole. There’s a bathroom with a tub the size of a hot tub.
I stand in the doorway, arms crossed tight. I don’t know what to do with myself. I assume we’re in the Penthouse Suite.
“This is too much,” I say.
“It’s where you belong,” Finn replies. That’s it—no apology for the grandness and no complaint about the cost.
I turn to him. “You’re not going to try anything, right? Just because we’re sharing a room?—”
His eyes soften. “Kate. I’m not a caveman.”
I breathe out, the tension slowly uncoiling in my spine. “Okay.”
He gestures toward the suite. “Go ahead. Take a bath. Order room service. You’ve had a hell of a week.”
I nod and walk in slowly, but I’m still waiting for someone to tell me I don’t belong. But when no one does… Well, that’s the scariest part of all. Because part of me is already getting used to this.
