Reckless (41 page)

I guess I’m just slightly fascinated by the fact that Prince Charming was all half-smiles and dreamy eyes a few hours ago and now he’s looking like he’s about to transform into the Incredible Hulk and smash this entire hotel lobby to bits.

“No, I’m not. Sorry.” I step aside. “Go ahead.”

The man turns around at the sound of my voice, his face twisted and eyes locking on mine. His expression is distorted now, all hard lines and rough edges. He reminds me of this hot-headed Italian boy I met a couple summers ago in Naples. I’d never admit this out loud to anyone, but his temper was oddly erotic for me in a way that I’ve still yet to understand.

“What am I supposed to do now, huh?” He turns back to the lady with the purple hair, his fist clenched on the ledge of her desk.

Her jaw hangs, like she doesn’t know what to say, and almost without thinking, I take a step forward and place my hand on his tense shoulder.

“You can stay with me.” For a second, I’m out of my own body. It’s like the words traveled from my brain to my lips, bypassing any sort of filter mechanism that may have thrown a red flag on this idea. When I come-to, I realize I’ve just offered to share my hotel room with a complete stranger.

The man turns to face me, face softening only slightly. “What did you say?”

My jaw falls, and then I answer. “I got the last room. It was probably supposed to be yours. We can share. I’m sure there’s a pull-out couch or something.”

His jaw squares, and he exhales loudly through his nose.

“You have no where else to go,” I say, shrugging. My purse slides down my shoulder and catches on the crook of my elbow.

Smooth.

His eyes trace the length of me, and his hand lifts to his hair, running the length of the side of his head and leaving a ruffled, chocolate brown mess in its wake.

I’ve traveled all over the world. I’ve crashed on a dozens of couches with people I hardly knew or friends of friends. I’ve stayed in hostels. I’ve shared a dorm room bathroom with six other girls more semesters than I can count. I’m not shy. I’m not stingy. And I’m certainly not about to make this guy sleep on a park bench tonight.

“It’s up to you,” I say, slipping my bag back over my shoulder.

His stare still hasn’t broken, and it’s almost bordering on the cusp of uncomfortable.

“All right,” he says a few beats later. “As long as you you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I say. “As long as you promise not to murder me.”

I laugh.

He doesn’t.

I think he’s still pissed about the hotel losing his reservation, but he’s going to have to get over that because it is what it is, and I’m sure as hell not giving up my access to this room.

“Ms. Rosewood?” The lady with the purple hair calls my name, cradling the phone receiver on her shoulder. “Your suite is ready now. Would you like one key or two?”

Wheeling my bag to the front desk, I swallow the uncertain lump in my throat and request two keys.

We’re
really
doing this.

“All right,” she says, handing off two plastic, iridescent silver fobs with a diamond emblem on one side. “The Diamond suite is on our seventh floor. It’ll be the last room on the left. 732. If you need anything at all, please press zero. We’ll be hosting a New Year’s party in the Hixson ballroom beginning at eight. Complimentary champagne and free hors d’oeurvres.”

“Thank you.” I hand a key to my . . .
guest
. . . and pull my suitcase toward the elevator. His footsteps, heavy and striding, follow behind me.

Stepping onto the elevator, I clear my throat and glance up at him. He towers over me, and his scent fills the small space we share.

“I never caught your name,” I break the silence and press the button for floor seven.

He looks down at me, pushing a hard breath through his nose, and the doors close. “Cristiano.”

“Do you have a last name, Cristiano?” I don’t tell him that I want to know for safety purposes. You never know.

“Amato.”

We float to the seventh floor, deposited on a cloud of gravity and the doors ding.

“Here we are,” I say, eyes drawn to the ambient crystal sconces adorning the wall-papered walls. It’s an arguably romantic hotel. Higher-end than most. Locally and privately owned, at least according to the brochure I read when I was standing in line earlier. I’m not sure how much this suite runs per night, but I’m thankful it’s not coming out of my pocket.

Cristiano stays quiet as we trek to the end of the hall and locate our room. Swiping the fob, the light on the knob turns green, and I push the door open. It brushes across the plush carpet as we’re greeted with a veil of cold, air-conditioned air. I flick on some lights and immediately move to the balcony, pulling the drapes to let in sunlight.

A king-sized bed centers the oversized suite, and a small group of living room furniture is arranged in one of the corners along with a mini bar and kitchenette. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and I can already catch a peek of a marble shower and the Jacuzzi tub I have every intention of enjoying at some point tonight.

I’d have really loved to have all of this to myself, but alas, I couldn’t be an asshole. My only hope is that this entire thing doesn’t backfire in my face because judging by the way Cristiano is slamming his bag on the floor and crouching in one of the chairs tells me he’s in a bad way right now.

“You okay?” I ask, almost afraid of his answer.

I never thought I’d be missing the obnoxiously charming version of him I met just hours ago.

He glances up, his face pained and his fingers curled into fists.

“I have to get home,” he says, jaw tight.

“You and me both.”

“I’m supposed to be in a wedding in New Jersey this weekend,” he says. “My best friend is getting married. I’m in the wedding party, and I’m supposed to be there all week.”

“Yeah, well, my sister’s having a baby any day now,” I say. “I’d really love to click my heels and be home too, but that’s not happening. We’re stuck here. Throwing luggage and going all Hulk-mode isn’t going to do you a damn bit of good.”

He blows a rushed breath between his full lips and meets my gaze, his expression morphing from hardened to defeated.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s just . . . I’m supposed to be there. I . . .”

“I get it. Trust me. This really fucking sucks.” I plop down on the edge of the king bed, running the palms of my hand over the navy and white duvet. “It’s New Year’s Eve. You probably wanted to be home with your friends, going out, having a good time. And now you’re stuck here in this weird little hotel in some small, seaside town with some random girl who chewed you out at the airport earlier for being
too
charming. You have a lot of things to be ticked off about.”

I fold my arms across my chest, the way I do when I’m about to lecture my art students when I feel like they’re not grasping the weight of my lesson.

“Look,” I continue. “I spent the better part of today frantic and anxious and stressed and moody, and it got me nowhere. It did nothing for me. It is what it is and there’s nothing we can do but try to get the hell out of here as soon as possible tomorrow.”

He sinks back in his chair and glances out the balcony window. “They better have us on a flight first thing in the morning.”

Chuffing, I say, “Um, have you looked at the weather out east lately?”

He pulls his phone from his pocket, his hand engulfing it, and drags his thumb across the screen a few times.

“Well, shit.” His head tilts back in defeat as his hand falls against his jeans, landing with a clap.

“I’m checking out first thing after breakfast,” I say. “I’m renting a car, and I’m driving home.”

“That’s stupid.” He frowns. “You’re going to drive almost three thousand miles instead of waiting for the weather to clear?”

“You sound like my sister.” I exhale, rolling my eyes. “I’ve done the math. Three days of driving thirteen hours a day. I’ll be home by Saturday.”

He shakes his head. “You have to figure in bathroom breaks, gas, food stops. You might be driving thirteen hours a day, but it’s going to be fifteen hours of traveling. Minimum. And you’re not accounting for traffic. And what if you get tired and can’t do thirteen?”

Lying back on the bed, I fold my hands across my stomach and stare up at the ceiling, groaning. “I know you have some valid points, but I’m also determined to do this, and basically anytime I have my mind made up about something, there’s pretty much no talking me out of it.”

“Don’t let me stop you from being a dumbass,” he says, scoffing.

“Yeah, well, I’m going to be home in time to see my sister give birth and you’ll still be sitting around Seaview twiddling your thumbs and waiting for the storm to pass so you can
hopefully
find a flight out of here.”

“Give it a day or two. There’ll be a flight.”

“This storm’s supposed to last another two, maybe three days. By the time Saturday rolls around, the storm will be gone and the roads will be cleared,” I argue. “Besides, I can’t sit around and wait. I’ll go stir crazy. I’m serious. I can’t sit still and do nothing. I just . . . can’t.”

I glance at him, watching him sigh as he lifts his hands behind his head and stares, dead-eyed, ahead.

“I’m going to make the best of this,” I elaborate. “This is going to be a little adventure. I’ve never road tripped across the country before.” Rolling to my side, I cup my hand under my jaw and say, “I’m probably the most adventurous person you’ll ever meet. Just so you know.”

His dark gaze flicks my way, and the corner of his mouth pulls up just a hair. “I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, look, you
can
still smile,” I tease. “I was worried you lost that ability down in the lobby.”

His expression fades. He’s probably not in a mood to be messed with, but I don’t care. I’m not spending the next fifteen hours holed up in this hotel room with a six foot three, male model version of Grumpy Bear.

“I think I liked you better at the airport, when you were trying to hit on me,” I say, though I’m merely trying to get a rise out of him.

“I wasn’t hitting on you.”

“Bullshit,” I cough.

“If I was hitting on you, trust me, you’d know.”

“Mm, hm.” I rise, grabbing my suitcase and tossing it on the bed.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“You shouldn’t put your luggage on the bed,” he says. “In case of bed bugs. That’s how they come home with you. They climb into your suitcase and your clothes and . . .”

“Fine.” I yank it down and sit it on a nearby table. This guy is like a wealth of Pro Life Tips when it comes to traveling and it’s kind of annoying. “Better?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s still in a mood. Must be his time of the month.

That’s a thing – male PMS. It’s actually called Irritable Male Syndrome.

My sister, Deliliah, has her master’s in social work, and she’s taken several psychology classes, and she verified that some men suffer a drop in testosterone during certain times of the month. It’s cyclical. So basically men have a time of the month and it causes them to be irritable jackasses that nobody wants to deal with.

Unzipping my bag, I pull my toiletry pouch from a side pocket and fish out my toothbrush, toothpaste, and some makeup. Shuffling to the bathroom, I freshen up because judging by the state of my haggard appearance, I’ve definitely seen better days. When I’m finished, I return to my suitcase and pull out a black dress I’d packed just in case.

“Where are you going?” he asks like he’s my father. All he’s missing is the kind of mustache that would make Tom Selleck green with envy.

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” I say with a shrug. “I’m going to treat myself to some wine and a nice steak dinner, and maybe some free champagne if I’m feeling saucy.”

“Alone?”

Turning slowly to face him, I nod. “Right. Haven’t you ever had dinner alone?”

“Hundreds of times,” he says, expression bored. He may as well be polishing his nails on his shirt pocket.

Maybe I’m being rude here. Maybe he has a funny way of fishing for an invite.

“You want to come with me?” I ask.

He stares off to the side. “No.”

Flinging my dress over my shoulder, I return to the bathroom and shimmy into it. Combing my fingers through my hair, I pile my hair on top of my head and twist it into a loose bun. A slick of red balm on my lips finishes the look. Fishing a pair of heels from my bag, I toss them on the ground and step in.

“Last chance . . .” I say, grabbing my purse and checking that I have my room key. “Sure you don’t want anything?”

“Not hungry.”

“Okay.” My voice is a barely audible whisper as I head for the door.

Funny how our personas have completely flipped a la
Freaky Friday
. Maybe when we wake up tomorrow, I’ll be the bitchy one again and he’ll be trying to charm his way into my cold, dead heart.

This is nothing more than an adventure, I remind myself as my heels scuff along the carpet a moment later. The light above the elevator indicates it’s several floors above yet and still traveling down. Pressing the call button, I clasp my hands in front of my hips and wait.

Several seconds later, the elevator dings and the doors part, and a man with inky black hair, crystal blue eyes, and a deliciously wicked smile steps aside to make room.

“Good evening,” he says with a quick flash in his baby blues. His jacket is a deep shade of blue, and as I step on board, I spot the four gold stripes on his shoulder and a winged badge on his lapel which identifies him as Captain Taylor. “Going down?”

C
hapter
Three

C
ristiano

I
haven’t moved
in hours, and maybe it’s pathetic, but I’m sitting here like a pissed off lump, thumbing through my phone, looking at all the pictures and posts my friends back home are flicking up every ten seconds.

It kills me that I’m not there. My body heats, flushes of powerless jealousy washing over me. I can almost hear them laughing, clinking glasses, toasting to the bride and groom’s future together and making memories that I’ll never be a part of because I’m stuck here.