“If it’s okay, I’m going to pass, Kev. I’m beat.” At some point, I needed to tell him about my encounter with Madame Paulette, but this wasn’t the time.
“It’s Valentine’s Day. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”
Kevin knew how downtrodden I got on this holiday. “Yeah. I’m going to order room service and curl up with some book boyfriend.”
Kevin mock-sniffed. “But I’m your one and only Valentine.”
I laughed. “Don’t worry. You are. Have fun tonight!”
“Mwah! Happy Valentine’s Day, Glorious. I love you.”
“Love you back.”
As I hung up the phone, a pang of sadness stabbed me. Book boyfriends were as close as I’d ever gotten to the real thing.
Though it was now only 5:30, I was ravenous. Other than the chocolate, I hadn’t eaten a thing all day. My body was crying out for food. Maybe a good steak, a baked potato, and an iced tea. Definitely no alcohol after last night’s binge, the effects of which still lingered a little.
As I was about to reach for the phone, it rang again. I picked it up on the second ring.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
Jaime! I sucked in a gulp of air. “Don’t you have a hot Valentine’s date?”
“No. I don’t do love.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then, come eat with me.”
Silence.
“My suite is three doors down to the right.”
Silence.
“We can talk business.”
Silence.
“Just get your lovely ass over here.”
Jaime’s corner suite was triple the size of mine—a mini palace in the sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around it and overlooked the sparkling city. The views were breathtaking.
The lights were dimmed, and scattered candles scented the air. He ushered me to a black leather couch and strode over to a built-in veneer cabinet in the corner. Putting on some soft jazz, he said, “Room service should be here any minute. I hope you don’t mind that I’ve already ordered for both of us.”
“Perfectly fine.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Casually dressed in charcoal sweats that hung low on his hips and a soft white tee—and barefoot— he looked freshly showered and sexy as hell. How could he always look this way? Having slipped back into the gray ensemble that I’d worn earlier in the day to keep things businesslike, I felt overdressed and uptight.
I surveyed his suite. While mine was decorated with mid-century reproductions, I got the sense that the furnishings in his were authentic and included pieces from Bauhaus, Charles Eames, and others. He had moreover personalized the spacious interior with a bold geometric patterned rug and colorful pillows that picked up the hues of the many intriguing abstract paintings scattered on the walls. They were similar in style to the ones in his office and all signed PAZ.
He crossed the room with his long-legged confident gait and sunk into a creamy leather armchair opposite me. My eyes roamed down his face and landed on his crotch. Holy shit! There was a tent between his thighs!
“Do you live here full time?” I asked, fumbling for conversation.
“Yeah.”
Okay, so it wasn’t a fuck pad, but it was still an odd living arrangement. Was it because he could fuck transient women and never have to see them again? I mentally slapped myself and asked, “Why do you live in a hotel?”
“It’s convenient. I work long hours and travel a lot, so having all these amenities makes things easier.”
I could understand that because I lived in a full maintenance high-rise building in Los Angeles that catered to my every whim—except room service.
He paused. “And because I own it.”
My eyes popped. He owned this hotel?
Before I could inquire further, there was a loud knock at the door. Jaime jumped up to open it. A handsome, college-aged waiter wheeled in a white linen-covered cart with two silver dome-covered platters on warmers. I was surprised there was also a chilled bottle of Cristal in a bucket of ice—especially after my embarrassing episode last night.
“Mr. Zander, would you like me to set up a table here or would you prefer to eat in the dining room?” asked the eager-to-please waiter.
“Right here is fine,” replied Jaime, pointing to the area between his chair and the couch.
The waiter magically transformed the cart into a small dining table, complete with linens, utensils, and a votive candle.
“I’ll take it from here,” said Jaime, slipping the waiter a twenty-dollar bill. The thankful young man scurried out of the suite.
I watched as Jaime expertly uncorked the champagne and poured the bubbly into a pair of flutes.
“Just a little for me,” I said hastily as he filled my glass. Careful, Gloria. Control yourself. The last thing I wanted was a repeat of last night.