Scandalized(3)

Before I can even react, the other guests have jogged over to the concierge’s desk and formed a line in the reverse order from this one, all clamoring for attention. Great.

Looking down, I send an email through the work travel portal, letting the help desk know the hotel I went to is booked solid. But it’s almost ten now, and I have no idea how long it will take someone to see it. I try calling, too, and get a voicemail. The surfaces of my eyes burn with frustrated, exhausted tears and I squeeze my lids closed, thinking. What are the odds I could just nap on a couch in the lobby and no one would notice? Or even return to the airport and curl up on a row of seats there? I’ve been rebooked onto a flight tomorrow morning at eight; it’s not like I need anything elaborate.

I’m startled back into awareness when a hand comes around my elbow, gently guiding me away from where I stand alone in a line that now leads nowhere.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” Alec asks.

“No. I’m trying to figure it out.”

He gazes down at me. “Do you need me to make some calls?”

I shake my head. “I’m just… so tired and need a shower more than I need my next breath.”

Tilting his head, he studies me with disarming focus for a few quiet seconds. “If you’d like, you can do that up in my room.”

Surely he’s kidding. “I—no, really, it’s okay.”

“If you’re uncomfortable, I understand,” he says quickly, “but you’re a family friend. You look like you might drop where you’re standing. If you want to take a shower upstairs, it’s really okay with me.”

Two more seconds of eye contact and then I break it.

I’ve been whittled down to my barest self. Even my hands feel grimy.

I nod, totally defeated and lifting my chin for him to lead the way. “Thank you.”



* * *



Inside the elevator, we stand as far apart as we can and fall deeply, heavily quiet. The realization lands like a tarp thrown over my head: No matter how badly I need to shower, this is a terrible idea. I’m five-foot-four, heading upstairs with a guy who easily has eight inches on me, and I’ve just spent two weeks tracking down scum-of-the-earth men all over London. I know better.

I wonder if Alec is having the same thought, or if not the same—surely he doesn’t worry about me physically overpowering him—then wariness about who I might have become in the years since we knew each other. The quiet is so absolute that it feels like some cosmic force has put the world on mute. I stare at my sneakers, scuffed and dusty on the gleaming polished floor of the elevator.

I don’t realize he’s been watching me until he speaks. “You can text a friend if you’re feeling uncomfortable,” he says. “Or—God, sorry this is obvious—I can stay downstairs until you’re done.”

Making him stay out of his room until I’m done feels… unnecessary. He isn’t a stranger, not really, and he’s probably just as exhausted as I am. I knew his family for six years—spent at least half of my weeknights across the dinner table from him, eating his mother’s Korean home cooking. He was soft-spoken, playful, attentive. God, eighth-grade Georgia would have kissed him until she passed out if she’d had the chance.

Still, a text is a good idea. If I was better rested, fed, and clean, it might have occurred to me to do this before even getting into the elevator.

My voice creaks out of me. “What’s your room number?”

He slides a hand into his pocket and pulls the envelope out, blinking his eyes down to it. “Twenty-six eleven.”

I text my best friend, Eden. Met an old friend. Using his room to shower because hotel situation is a mess. Seattle Airport Marriott. Room 2611. He’s a good guy but I’ll text within the hour to let you know I’m okay.

Immediately, she replies with a shocked-face emoji followed by a simple Okay.

“Thanks,” I say, pocketing my phone. Just the fact he suggested I text someone makes me feel better. He’s poised, has such a gentle presence. I try to imagine him turning menacing and… I mean, anything is possible. It’s astonishing how well the world hides viciousness. “How’d you manage to snag a room?”

He smiles as he holds the elevator door for me to exit first. “I was lucky to have someone call ahead of the crowd.”

After swiping his key against the door labeled PRESIDENTIAL SUITE, Alec gestures for me to step in ahead of him, and I’m so caught up in the view before me that I’m halfway down the long entry hall before I remember my manners. Of course, he’s still by the door, stepping out of his shoes. I’m blurry and wiped, and few things make me feel more graceless than the way he glances down at my feet as I trip out of my Vans.

He carefully wheels his glossy carry-on past me into the room.

Or rooms, really. I knew hotels had suites—I’ve stayed in them once or twice on very extravagant girls’ trips and have been in my share of them for interviews with important people—but this is different. This isn’t just an apartment, it’s a luxury apartment. An apartment villa. One entire wall is just floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Seattle skyline. There’s a living room, a full kitchen, a separate dining room, and a door leading down a hall to where there seems to be multiple other rooms. “Wow.”