Page 174 of Hate You More

At my laptop now, I check the flight times for today for both cities before expanding my scope into next week. United. Delta. Air France. BA. KLM. Swiss. ITA. The list of airlines and flight configurations seem endless. I can’t camp out at Newark and JFK both.

But I doubt she’ll leave today. She’ll be hurting because preparation only gets you so far. In her case, out of the door. And no one wants to fly commercial looking like death. Questions would be asked.

I call her lawyer’s answering service and leave a message, citing an emergency. I call the catering crew next and leave a message for her friend, the blonde—Chelsea—to urgently call me back. Next, I call O’Rourke’s, where I find myself talking to some woman who sounds like she has a fifty-a-day habit. The advice she gives me is to “cram my urgency up my own hole” for daring to steal her best bartender.

I expect I’ll get the same guidance in person when I turn up there later. I grab my keys and my phone and make for the front door before my footsteps begin to slow.

What if she doesn’t fly commercial? My stomach pinches tight.

She has the money to charter a private flight. She said it herself, she likes nice things. Pretty surroundings, eating out in fancy restaurants and—

Hotels.

That’s it!

Kind of.

See, the thing they never tell you in the movies, particularly those within the romance genre, is that hotels aren’t keen on giving out their guests’ information.

Five hotels in—because she isn’t at the Plaza, the place her grandma used to take her for afternoon tea, and because she didn’t tell me the name of her favorite Midtown staycation escape—I can feel a vein in my temple beginning to pulse, despite having my pitch down to an art.

“Karmella, I don’t need her room number,” I say evenly, “but if you could tell Miss Forbes that Chelsea is here.” Miss Forbes, my ass. Mrs. Templeton—Ms. Forbes Templeton, maybe. But her days of being “Miss” anything are over.

“Chelsea?” The desk clerk’s mouth purses as she looks me up and down.

“It’s a family name.” I employ a charming smile, though it feels kind of rusty, as I rub my knuckles over the ache in my sternum. At the last hotel I said my parents were expecting a girl.

I’ve got to be close—got to be. Because the number of hotels in Manhattan . . . I can’t even contemplate. But the number of hotels with an heiress previously deprived of nice things hiding out there? Not so numerous.

Man, why couldn’t I have been a billionaire for a little while longer? There’ve got to be all kinds of rich-guy work-arounds for getting information out of people. Maybe I should’ve tried bribery. Maybe I will at the next place. Wonder how much a desk clerk makes—should I offer one year’s wage or two?

“Sir, as I’ve said, it goes against company policy.”

“I know.” I hold up my hands. “Privacy laws. Guest safety. But like I said, she’s expecting me. I just plumb forgot my phone.” Fuck it, I should’ve changed before leaving the apartment. My watch might cost five times more than a Rolex but it’s not a brand everyone knows, and while my sneakers and jeans are designer, I always get better treatment when I’m suited and booted. “I tell you what,” I begin again. “I’m gonna go over there and stand by yonder palm tree.” I know, I’m laying it on thick, but I read once that Southern accents are associated with trust and warmth. Of course, some would argue stupidness. “And when Miss Forbes says she’s expecting me”—please, God—“then she can come down and meet me in the lobby. Or you can send me up. Whichever is her preference.”

If lip pursing was an Olympic sport, this woman would win gold.

“I’m really not sure—”

“But if she’s forgotten she’s expecting me,” I bulldoze on, “or if she’s booked in under the name of Wilma Flintstone, I will leave without another question asked. There will be no confirmation of her residence, and no rules broken,” I say, holding up my hands.

And no need to call security, I hope. So far, that’s happened twice. “I won’t even look as you make that call,” I add, already beginning to step away. When her eyes glide to the desk phone, I pivot and pull my cell from my back pocket by sleight of hand.

A minute later, my heart leaps into my throat as she calls me back over.

“Miss Forbes is in room 806. You can go on up.”

“Thank you, Karmella. I appreciate your help.” My words are calm as jubilation shoots through my insides. I send a prayer to the heavens and a pump of my fist as the elevator doors glide closed.

The car is quick but not quick enough, and when the doors burst open, I spring sideways from them, then hustle along the hallway, my stomach tightly coiled. I knock lightly on the door, hopefully more like a woman would. No desperate hammering of a husband in need of his mate here.

My mate. My woman. My wife. My love.

Please let it be so.

The door opens with a sharp intake of her breath. But at least she doesn’t slam it. Got my foot there anyway, just in case.

“Troy.” My name is almost a show of resilience. “What are you doing here?”