Third time is apparently not the charm.
“No, Natalie, this is not the time for running away, this is a time for smoothing things over with your future husband.”
I groan, dropping my face into my hand.
“Oh, and Vivian says you haven’t returned her phone calls either, Natalie.”
Right, my older sister, the queen bee socialite of New York City. The perennial favorite. The one that our mother seems perfectly okay with seeing a new man for every season.
And I get conniptions about leaving my fiancé for screwing around on me.
The room phone starts to ring as my mother continues to talk, and I grit my teeth and grip the mug of coffee a little tighter in my hand.
“Mother, I have to go.”
“Oh, do say hello to Vincent for me, won’t you?”
I hang up without dignifying that with a response.
The room phone rings again and I groan.
Now what.
“This is insane!”
I’m staring at the hotel manager across the check-in desk, feeling the heat flood into my face as she patronizingly shakes her head at me.
“Ms. Ames, I’m sorry, but we can’t charge a card that’s been declined.”
It’s the fourth time she’s said it, and it’s been getting less and less apologetic in tone with every run-through.
“It’s my fiancé’s credit card.”
You know, technically.
“That may be, Ms. Ames, but the card has been reported stolen.”
That fucker.
I feel humiliated, standing there in the same freaking cocktail dress I wore the the night before - the one I slept in - holding my shoes like some sort of walk of shame tragedy. There’s a line forming behind me, and I can feel the eyes of the people waiting to check-in glaring at the back of my head.
The concierge sitting awkwardly between the manager and I at the front desk console swallows thickly and smiles weakly at me. “Ms. Ames, if you have another card, we could-”
“Goddamnit, I don’t have another-!”
I clamp my mouth shut mid-shout, feeling my face turn absolutely crimson.
“I don’t have another card,” I say, quietly this time.
My phone buzzes in my clutch, and I shoot another evil look at the manager before I yank it out and feel my blood pressure go through the damn roof when I see who’s calling.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me, you fucking-”
“Now now, Natalie, let’s be adults here.” Vince’s voice on the other end of the line has my lips tightening to thin white lines across my mouth, my hand clenching in a fist tight enough to hurt at my side.
“Vince,” I say sharply, taking a deep breath. I’m not ‘thinking of the good times’ or ‘holding onto what we had’ or anything other bullshit line I’m sure he’s about to feed me. Because all I can see is her. All I can see is my own pride being swept way - and me allowing it to happen.
“They’re not going to let me stay here if you report my credit card as stolen.”
He chuckles, and I swear to God I almost throw the phone through the etched glass doors of the hotel.
“Well, Natalie, it’s my credit card, to be fair-”
“Which is mine to use-”
“For expensive hotel rooms and bar tabs after embarrassing me at the gala?”
My head’s spinning.
I embarrassed him - this is literally how he’s looking at the situation.
“Vince-”
“Here’s how this is going to work, Natalie,” he says abruptly, cutting me off. “I’ll pay for your silly night on the town, okay? I’ll cover the bill for last night, if…”
I grind my teeth together. “If what.”
“If you just come home, and we can put this silly thing behind us.”
This time, I do make the scene I never wanted to make, when the entire lobby gasps in shock as I scream. I wind my arm back, every intention of putting my smartphone violently through the plate glass door of the hotel entryway, when suddenly there’s a hand on my wrist, stopping me.
“What if we didn’t do that, princess.”
I jerk my head around at the sudden grip on my arm and the familiar voice in my ear.
Austin.
I blush bright red as I realize the man I never actually expected to see again - the man who got the full brunt of my drunk recklessness and shattering of inhibitions - is standing right in front of me. It’s like that moment when you say goodnight to a friend after dinner, only to realize you’re both parked in the same lot.
Only, you know, roughly ten-thousand times more embarrassing, given the context of our last exchange.
“Um, hi.”
Um, hi?
I cringe inside as the words fall from my lips before I can stop them. So much for years of training in polite conversation and etiquette.