Inevitable Detour (Inevitability Book 1)(23)

“That’s a nice one?”

“Definitely,” he replies. “Union Station is a St. Louis landmark, much like the Gateway Arch. It was once a busy railroad station, but it’s long since been renovated. There’s a hotel there now—the one where we’ll be staying—and some restaurants and shops.”

“Sounds nice,” I say.

Farren nods to the camera I’m holding in my lap. “Bring that in with you when we check in. You can take some pictures of Grand Hall. You’ll love it, I’m sure.”

“Oh, getting to know me, huh?” I tease.

He slides his gaze my way. “I am getting to know you, Essa,” he says in a low, sexy voice. Oh my.

I’m thankful for the darkness when we drive into a parking garage. It gives me time to compose myself, lose the redness from my cheeks. When we emerge from the garage, outside of a very cool-looking Union Station, I’m recovered. I snap a pic of a clock tower that looks like it belongs in a quaint European village. And when we step into what Farren told me was once one of the busiest railroad station in the world, I discover he was right about the place being amazing. I stare up at the ceiling, which is majestic, all curved and soaring.

“This is beautiful,” I whisper.

I snap a few pics, and then Farren and I walk toward a richly varnished checkin counter.

“I knew you’d like it in here,” he says. Then, with a smirk, he says, “A little nicer than the Super Eight, huh?”

“Ha-ha.” I laugh. “I’d say it’s much nicer.”

It’s amazing that under the circumstances, Farren has taken into consideration what I may or may not like. I think he kind of likes me. Then again, maybe Farren is just naturally attentive to women. Suddenly, the thought of all the many ways in which Farren could be attentive to a woman floods me with a slew of lusty feelings, feelings that warm my body and heat my cheeks.

I start to fan myself, just as Farren finishes checking us in. He turns to me and his brow creases. “Are you okay, Essa?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” I wave my hand, which inadvertently attracts a bellhop over to us.

“May I take your bags to your room?” the bellhop asks Farren.

I’ve been saved by the bellhop, which, for some reason, makes me giggle.

After Farren hands off our bags to the young man, we take an old-time elevator up to our floor. “Our rooms are down this way,” he says, pointing to the right when the elevator doors open. We turn and walk down a long corridor to the two rooms he has checked us in to.

When we stop at the second-to-the-last door near the end of the corridor, Farren hands me a key card. “This is your room,” he says. He then gestures to the next door down. “I’ll be right next door.”

“Great, thank you.”

I glance around, like our bags might suddenly appear, and Farren reminds me that it may take a few minutes before the bellhop gets the bags up to our floor.

“Oh yeah, that reminds me,” I say. “What time are we meeting your friend?” I glance down at my yellow tee and Daisy Dukes. “I think I should probably change.”

Farren chuckles as his eyes move over my body quickly.

“Yeah, that look is definitely cute,” he murmurs. “But changing into something different would probably be a good idea.”

“What should I wear?” I ask.

I’ve only been told that we’re meeting Farren’s friend—work partner, whatever—at a restaurant this evening. I have no idea if we’re going to a fancy place or a more casual venue. “I’d like to dress appropriately,” I add.

“To answer your first question,” Farren replies. “Can you be ready in about an hour and a half?”

I nod. “Yeah, no problem.”

“Perfect. As for clothing, wear something nice.”

“Uh…” I shift from one sandaled foot to the other. “We may have a problem there.”

He raises a questioning eyebrow, and I explain, “I didn’t pack any really dressy clothes. A couple of summer dresses, but nothing, like, sophisticated.”

“That’s not a problem,” Farren assures me, the side of his mouth curving up in amusement. “There’s a boutique nearby. I’ll have them send something up.”

“Shoes, too?” I blurt out when I remember I packed nothing but sneakers and casual sandals.

He chuckles. “Yes, Essa, shoes, too.”

Farren turns to head to his room, and I watch him walk away. Right when he’s about to enter his key card in the slot on the door, I suddenly remember something.

“Hey,” I call over to him, “don’t you need my sizes?”

Pausing, he says with confidence, “Don’t worry, Essa. Whatever I have the boutique send up to you, I guarantee it will fit.”

Farren then slips into his room, leaving me insanely curious as to how he can just look at a woman’s body—in this case, mine—and know her measurements. He sure seems confident. I guess we’ll see.

Thirty minutes later, after I’ve showered in a bathroom the size of my entire room at the Super 8, my dress and shoes arrive. I quickly discover Farren had every reason to be confident. His assessment of my figure is spot-on.

Smiling, I slip the little black dress over my head and smooth the silky material over my hips. The dress is short and sleeveless, with a cutout that exposes my back. I spin in front of the mirror. This look is good—sexy, yet classy. I dig out a pair of black leather pumps from the box that arrived with the dress and find they, too, are a perfect fit. “That Farren,” I murmur to myself.