Page 14 of Examining the Bond

My footsteps echo as I cross the lobby, and I wait eagerly for the receptionist to show up. No one does.

There’s a small bell sitting on top of the desk, begging to be rung, but I don’t want to appear impatient. I wait another full minute, bouncing on my toes to abate some of my nervous energy, before finally giving up and ringing it. The loudpingechoes through the lobby.

As the seconds drag on, my imagination starts running wild. Is anyone working? Are they closed? Did I somehow walk into the wrong hotel, even though it’s the only one around?

Finally, after what feels like forever, a lumbering beta man steps through a door next to the desk, still wiping his food-stuffed mouth with a napkin.

“Sorry about that,” he says, dropping into the chair behind the desk. “No one showed up to cover my lunch break. How can I help you?”

Guilt claws at me for assuming the worst, and I quickly reassure him. “It’s no problem. I just came from the clinic, andthey told me to give you these.” I hand him the grant papers. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying though, so?—”

“If you’re with the clinic program, you don’t have to know your checkout date. Some stay for a day or two, some stay for months.” He shrugs, clicking a few things on his computer before reaching into the desk and pulling out a keycard.

“M-months?” My eyebrows inch toward my hairline.

Surely I won’t be here that long.

I can’t miss that many classes…

“Yep. I think the longest stay was four months,” he thinks out loud, scanning the keycard before writing a number—311—on the back. “Most only stay about a week.”

Before I can process what it would be like to be stuck alone in Boston for four months, he’s handing me the card.

“Your room is on the third floor.” He jerks a thumb toward the elevator. “The number for room service is 100. You can order breakfast, lunch, and dinner by dialing the number on the menu in your room.”

I nod along, even though the influx of information has my eyes glazing over. The only thing I care about right now is finding my room and getting settled. I’m exhausted from the trip and my appointment at the clinic. Everything else can wait.

“Do you want help with your bag?” the hotel worker asks, eyeing my duffel bag.

I quickly shake my head. I don’t want to impose on his lunch break more than I already have. Besides, I’m peopled out for the day.

Alone time is what I need.

“No thanks,” I reply and head for the elevator. I’m hardly surprised when the man disappears the second I step away from the desk.

My room is relatively bland like the lobby downstairs, but it’s better than the sterile white walls and hospital bed I initiallyimagined. It’s decent-enough sized—bigger than my room back at the academy—with a queen-size bed and a TV in the corner.

There’s a small chair, a bedside table topped with a phone and a welcome brochure, and a single abstract painting hanging above the headboard. That’s it.

Not exactly cozy, but it’ll do.

Once I unpack and get settled, it’ll feel a little more like home, though no amount of blankets or throw pillows could ever make this cardboard box feel like a nest.

It’s only for a few days, I remind myself hopefully.

Dropping my bag on the bed, I rip the zipper open and unpack everything I brought with me. A few outfits and extra shoes, travel-sized toiletries, a notebook, some pens, and my favorite throw blanket whichbarelyfit, but I had to bring at least one thing from my nest.

I tuck everything but the blanket into the dresser across from the bed, stacking it neatly the way I would back at the academy. Then, I rearrange the linens and pillows on the bed, smushing them into a more attractive pile before draping my throw blanket over the top. I skeptically crawl onto the mattress. It’s not very comfortable but, again, it’ll do.

I’m just about to reach for the remote to turn on the TV when my stomach grumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten since breakfast on the plane. Between panicking through the airports and hurrying to the Buchanan Center, food completely slipped my mind.

Now, I’m starving.

The menu is waiting beneath the welcome brochure on the bedside table, and I flip it open to peruse the options. Then, I call down to the kitchen and patiently wait for the food to be brought up.

CHAPTER SEVEN

RIANN