A Cross-Country Christmas(48)
“It’s like fate! What could bring more Christmas spirit than a Christmas ball in a fancy hotel?”
“I can think of about a thousand other things,” she said.
“Name one.”
Lauren paused. “Give me a second. . .”
“We’re totally going.”
Will stepped back up to the counter. “It’s a yes on the ball, my friend.”
The clerk slid their keys across the counter. “I gave you adjoining rooms.”
“Oh, that isn’t necessary,” Lauren said.
“It’s either that or you’ll be on two different floors.”
She smiled through a groan. “Perfect.”
Those doors had locks on them, right?
They got in the elevator and took it to the twelfth floor. When they got out, Will handed her a small rectangular ticket. On it, the words “Twentieth Annual Brush Creek Christmas Ball.”
“Will, I can’t go to this!”
“Why not?”
“It’s a ball.”
“You say it like the Queen of England is throwing it.”
“She may as well be!”
“I’ll brush up on my British accent.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Ooh, maybe you’ll overhear Mr. Darcy say something horrible about you.”
A faint memory crept in, but she shoved it aside and gave him a light push. “I have nothing to wear.”
“Well, you’ll have to wear something, I don’t think it’s that kind of ball.”
“Will, I’m serious!”
“You don’t have anything in that big, fat suitcase?” He eyed it suspiciously.
“For a dance? Are you kidding?” She shoved her key card in the door, waited for the green light to flicker and pushed it open.
“No little black dress?”
Dang it.
She put a hand on her hip and pressed her lips together, knowing full well she did, in fact, have a little black dress in her suitcase.
She’d packed it just in case because she was a person who liked to be prepared.
“Ha ha. I figured you’d have something. Since you’re a person who likes to be prepared.” He grinned.
It was eerie that he’d vocalized her exact thought.
“Take your time getting ready, and then knock on the door when you want to head down.” He pointed to the door that connected their rooms.
“So, never, then?”
“Lauren.” He backed slowly toward the door.
Her eyebrows shot up.
“Live a little, will ya?”
The door slowly shut on Will’s double thumbs up and his stupid (adorable) grin.
Once alone, she turned, took two steps, and then flopped face first onto the giant king-sized bed. She spread her arms out wide and shouted “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” into the downy comforter. She flipped over, and wriggled a bit in the unfamiliar-but-insanely-comfortable bed. It practically begged her to take a nap and block out the rest of the world till morning.
But the man in the next room wasn’t going to let that happen.
And she desperately didn’t want to be boring.
She took the longest, hottest shower of her life, savoring every steamy minute. Their previous accommodations had been rudimentary at best, a lot like showering at what she imagined most outdoorsy dads would call a “nice campground.” But this? This was borderline decadent.
After her shower, she slipped into the hotel robe and towel-dried her hair. She opened the bathroom door and watched the steam escape into the pristine hotel room.
Her phone dinged.
Text from Lisa to Lauren—6:43 PM
Lauren. . .!
Great news! The team at the network is looking for a head designer for a new show they’re working on.
It’s a sitcom about a mom who goes back to college at the same school as her daughter.
I recommended you for the job, showed them some of your work AND THEY WANT IT.
What do you think?
It was only after she read the text two more times that she realized she’d been holding her breath since she saw Lisa’s name on her screen.
!!!
<huge smile emoji> I think you’re ready.
Lisa!
YES.
And thank you!
Make sure you use some of your own artwork in this design too, okay?
It’s perfect in the dorm, and it’ll be perfect for this too.
<thumbs-up emoji>
How did you know?
I know everything <winking emoji>
Congrats!
Chapter 23
Lauren turned a circle, and suddenly the room felt too big, too spacious. This was huge news! She called Maddie—straight to voicemail. Spencer—also voicemail. She clicked out of the call and went into her contacts, scrolling through names of co-workers, the pizza delivery place that was one of her “favorites”, her next-door neighbor, Gladys Ripkin, all the while ignoring the nagging voice in the back of her head that practically shouted at her: Go. Tell. Will!
She was beaming, laughing out loud, and looking around for somewhere to scream the news. This was what she’d been working for—striving for—since she moved to LA. It was the thing that always seemed just out of her reach. And she’d done it.