One Bossy Offer (144)

Just as I step inside, it happens.

Thud, thud, thud!

The noise hurts my ears and the whole world spins with a hiss like rushing water.

Yep, we’re sinking, and all I can do is scream but I never get the chance.

Instead, I bolt upright, my brow drenched in sweat.

It’s dark as hell when my eyes open.

Where am I again?

Oh, right.

No sinking ship, but this giant marshmallow of a bed.

I reach for my phone, tapping the screen for light. Using the glow, I scan the room slowly, letting my brain catch up to my surroundings.

“Just a dream. Jesus.” I sigh, wiping my brow. That jet lag slammed me harder than I thought.

I’m still in this beautiful hotel room and I probably have a few more precious hours before my alarm goes off to start the day.

I grin at my own stupidity.

No one ever said I lacked imagination.

My throat feels dry, though. I swing my legs over the bed to grab a drink of water and— Thud!

Again?

What the actual hell?

Am I still dreaming? I pinch my thigh to find out and wince.

Ouch. Okay, it’s real.

Thud!

Definitely real.

And I’m wide awake now with the awful realization that banging isn’t just in my head.

There’s someone moving around in my suite.

Who? Why? What the hell?

I hold my breath and wait.

The banging stops, but there are smaller noises. They’re muffled, like someone moving heavy stuff around and trying to be very quiet.

Not good.

Who’d be intruding in the middle of the night in a premier room? And how?

I always lock the door and I’m sure I didn’t miss it this time...right?

I swallow the nervous lump in my throat.

If you’re traveling, you always make sure your door is locked. Dad drilled that into me from the time I was twelve and going on my first skiing trip.

It must be someone who works here with a messed up maintenance schedule—or a deranged serial killer.

No other options.

With my breath shaking, I imagine a ring of bright funeral flowers in a halo around my Instagram profile picture and three pink bubble words. Rest In Peace.

Good God.

It’s just my luck that I’d snag the best room in Lanai, only to wind up hacked into stew meat.

My eyes flit through the darkness, better adjusted now.

Well, if this guy wants a piece of me, I’m not going down easy. Mr. Psycho Intruder will at least have to look me in the eye before he paints the room with my blood.

Still as a statue, I stand up and stop, focusing on where the noise is coming from.

The bathroom?

Maybe it’s housekeeping after all?

But why in all that’s holy would housekeeping be cleaning my flipping bathroom at—I glance at my phone to check the time—2:37 a.m.?

I feel the blood drain from my face.

We’re back at the serial killer theory because it’s the only thing that makes sense.

If I’m quiet, maybe I can get the jump on him before he notices I’m here. I need to take my best shot while I can—or at least make some racket so maybe someone on another floor calls the front desk.

Yeah, no, my dad didn’t raise a total chicken.

I’m getting him the hell out of my room, or I’ll die trying.

Let’s go, Mr. Psychoface. You chose the wrong girl to mess with today.

My thoughts are braver than the rest of me, though.

My heart strains like an angry dog on a leash with every step toward the bathroom, the source of that scuffing sound.

In front of the half-closed door, I freeze—it’s definitely not the way I left it.

Welp.

Since I’m probably doomed, I might as well surprise my would-be killer.

But I shouldn’t do it empty-handed, I realize at the last second.

I’ve binge-watched too many bad ’90s slasher flicks with Maisy to be the dumb throwaway chick who winds up as someone’s dinner.

I survey the room, looking for something—anything—I can use as a weapon.

It’s a hotel room, though, even if it’s a fabulous one.

There’s not much here besides a couple lamps and a few pieces of decorative art.

The ceramic green fish statue on the table could totally split some skulls—but it’s probably way too hefty to maneuver well.

I could grab a bottle of wine from the mini fridge—except they’re so small I can’t imagine it’d make a dent in anyone.

Then there’s the kitchenette. I guess I could grab a chair, but they’re solid wood, too bulky and hard to carry, let alone swing at someone.

Ugh.

If I live through this, I’m packing something sharp for next time.

My eyes search desperately and finally fall on the bedside table.

“There,” I mouth.

A crystal lamp stands tall and proud.

I grab it and march toward the bathroom.

Only, I didn’t think of unplugging it first. My movement stretches the brown cord and yanks me backward.

“Shit!”

Pulling makes it worse. I just manage to tangle it around a leg of the monkeywood table.

Smooth, Pippa, I think, watching the table wobble.

I try to rush over to free it, but it’s wound around that leg tighter than I realize and—the whole table goes crashing to the ground with a deafening rattle.