I hesitate on the threshold after he unlocks the door with the keycard. Somehow stepping across it feels like I’ve drawn a line in the sand. The truth is that I don’t have other options. At least, none that don’t include willfully turning a blind eye to my brother’s demands or running back to Sterling, a man who clearly hates me.
The suite isn’t like I remember. Of course, it’s been a decade since I came here. I stop a few feet in and stare at my new home. It’s been redone recently. The television in the living area is the newest technology. The linen sofa looks like it’s gotten less ass than a virgin. It’s all lovely and tasteful—and so like my mother. I feel at home, and I hate it. There’s little touches of her everywhere. I can almost swear I smell her perfume. I turn as a shadow passes in the corner, half expecting to find her there, but it’s only my imagination.
“Is everything…okay?” Geoff asks, glancing around. “We’ll send up housekeeping to freshen the sheets and towels.”
“When were they last changed?” I murmur absently, beginning to wander around.
“This morning.”
I stop and shake my head. “There’s no need to send them up. I have everything I need.”
“Room service is available, naturally. Anything you order will be included on your monthly bill.”
“Bill?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Incidentals and residence fees are billed to the account on file,” he explains. “It’s part of the arrangement.”
“Of course.” That makes sense, although I can’t believe my father kept this place all these years, paying fees on a penthouse we never used. No wonder our family is broke. “Where is that bill sent?”
The last thing I need is for Malcolm to know my every move, even if it’s unlikely to be more exciting than knowing I ordered a club sandwich two days in a row.
“I’ll look into that,” he promises. “I do hope everything is up to your standards. It’s been a while since we had a MacLaine in house.”
“I know.”
“Your father was a valued member here and we miss him terribly.”
“My father?” I smile. “You must not have known him very well.”
“Before his illness, he was here weekly. He was a demanding man but a generous one.”
He didn’t know my father at all.
Or maybe he knew him better than I did. Because I had no idea my father ever came to this suite at the Eaton. I only knew about it because of the slumber party.
“You’re saying my father came here often?”
“Weekly,” Geoff confirms. I see the recognition dawn on his face as this information sinks into me. He shouldn’t have said a thing. The Eaton is a luxury hotel—the kind that turns a blind eye to the vices of their wealthy patrons. Those residence fees he spoke of—I’m guessing they have a different purpose: hush money. Tip staff well enough and they’ll keep your secrets. Buy a penthouse, come and go as you please.
“Oh,” I feign idiocy. “The Nashville apartment! The family has so much real estate. I didn’t realize he was talking about this place. He did come here and stay when he had late meetings at the office. I haven’t been here since I was a kid. I just thought of it as a hotel.”
Geoff’s shoulders relax as though I’ve lifted a weight from them. He probably thought he was about to lose his job, and then who would arrange romantic evenings for Tennessee’s most spoiled mistresses?
“My brother comes here a lot, doesn’t he?” I ask, realizing that I might have overlooked a critical component of this plan. Malcolm has a weekly date he likes to keep quiet, too. What if…? I don’t want to think about my brother and his girlfriends being here.
“If he does, he doesn’t use the suite. It was your father’s,” Geoff assures me, bypassing the question of Malcolm’s patronage while still getting to the heart of the issue. I have to give it to him. He’s smooth.
“And now it’s mine,” I murmur. “The decor?”
“We can arrange for it to be redone as you like. I can put you in touch with our in-house interior designer.”
“Interesting.”
I mean it. I need some place to call my own.
“If there’s anything else…” Geoff trails away.
“Yes, can you call that designer? I just took a job in the city.” I mentally cross my fingers that I can smooth things over with Trish. “I wasn’t sure if it would be a good fit, but I think maybe I’m home.”
“Then let me be the first to say welcome back, Ms. MacLaine.”
Once Geoff leaves me in my new place, I find the bedroom, throw myself on the mattress, and scream into a pillow until my throat is raw. It beats crying. I once swore I would never cry over Sterling Ford again. It’s one of those promises you make out of desperation, and not because you think you can keep it.
But today?
Today, I don’t want to cry. Today, I want to be angry, because anger fuels. Crying saps. I need energy to steer this wreck of a life toward a stable future. When I’m done screaming, I order a fucking club sandwich and a bottle of champagne. I’m going to celebrate this moment.
I have a home.
I have a job.
I have a choice.
That makes today a diamond by any standards. I choose to see it that way.
Things could have gone on longer. I could have wasted even more time letting Sterling get the best of me. I could have let Malcolm dictate my entire future. I stood up to both of them. I walked away. If that’s not cause for celebration, then I don’t know what is.
The food arrives so quickly that I can feel my ass getting bigger. I might have to set some boundaries if they can get chocolate cake to me at this speed. Or not. It’s my life now.
Tomorrow, I’ll go to Windfall and pack while Malcolm is at work. Today, I settle for a silky Eaton robe I find in the master closet. But celebrating by myself turns out to remind me I’m alone. Usually, I’m okay with that. Even surrounded by friends, I’ve never quite fit. I’m always the odd one out. The one being dragged toward socialization. I’ve embraced that over the last few years.
But Sterling changed everything. He reminded me of what it’s like to be perfectly understood. Even when we’re at odds, he gets me. For a moment I was completely, utterly myself with him.
I let my guard down, and he attacked. I don’t know why I expected anything different to happen. You can’t blame a predator for striking. I practically laid down and begged for it. Just like he said I would.
Never again.
It’s something to drink to, so I pop the bottle of champagne and pour myself a glass. Room service, in its infinite wisdom, sent two champagne flutes. It feels like an insult to see it sitting there empty, so I pour another glass and place it next to the framed photo of my mother.
“To being rid of bad men,” I say to her and clink the rim of my glass to hers. I down the contents of my flute with one swallow. “You going to drink that?”
Great, now I’m talking to my dead mom. Maybe that’s because she’s one of the few people I’ve ever known who never said a bad thing about people. She always saw the good in them, but not in the innocent way my best friend Poppy does. She saw flaws, but she didn’t focus on them. People always say I take after her, but they mean in the looks department. I have her green eyes and fair complexion. That’s where our similarities end. I’m nothing like her. I’ve got too much of my father in me.