Scandalized(5)

Which I have left out in the hallway.

Of course I have. Because of course the flight was canceled, and there are no more rooms available. Of course Alec is here, and he goes by the much fancier name Alexander, and he’s a god and I’m a monster, and of course he has an enormous suite and he let me shower here, so of course my suitcase is out in the hall.

There are two robes on the back of the door, and I pull one free from its hanger, sliding into it. Soft, thick—it smells like lavender. I have never felt so clean and refreshed in my entire lifetime; for the first time in several days I’m hopeful that I can get home and find the strength and energy to write the story that’s been haunting my sleeping and waking hours.

Out in the hallway is my bag, and I catch a glimpse of Alec in the living room—facing the window, hands tucked into his pockets as he looks out over the skyline. He turns at the sound of my suitcase wheels on the marble floor and our eyes meet. Electricity spirals through my torso and he takes in my clean face, my wet hair, now free from the grubby bun. It’s spread halfway down my back and is darker from the water. And then his gaze trails down my neck and widens—

I clutch the robe closed where it’s gapped open. Oh God.

Jerking my suitcase in with me, I call out a mortified “Sorry!” and slam the bathroom door closed again. I don’t know how much boob he saw, but it definitely wasn’t no boob.

Suitcase open. Hair towel-dried and brushed, lotion applied, and now comes the hard part. Nothing is clean, but the question is, what is the least dirty? Packing only a carry-on for a two-week trip means wearing things multiple times, but even having washed some things in a sink at the hotel in London, everything at this point is crumpled and worn—horrible, really.

I pull out a bra and a red three-quarter-sleeve jersey dress. Forgivingly wrinkle-resistant. Comfortable. Cute. I take a sniff and decide it smells fine. Maybe too dressy for a cab ride over to another hotel, but unlike pants, it doesn’t require me to put on a pair of dirty underwear.

Truly, I am a mess.

Packing everything back up, I move out into the hall.

“Alec,” I say with gratitude, and he turns. His expression tightens, and he looks me over in surprise. “Thank you. Seriously, I feel like a new person after that shower.”

He nods. “You’re welcome. I’ll walk you down.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“I don’t mind. I’m not tired anyway. I’ll probably get a drink downstairs.”

Inadvertently, my attention darts across the room to the fully stocked bar in the corner. “Oh. Okay.”

“I spend a lot of time alone in hotel rooms,” he explains, giving me a new and devastating grin. This smile is different. It’s flirtatious and oddly knowing. It feels like fingertips slowly dragged down my arm.

I turn and move toward the door, suddenly aware how close we are. I mean, not really—I don’t think he’s moved from where he stood near the window, but an odd silence has fallen over the room and the force of his presence shrinks the cavernous suite down to a shoebox. Even with my back to him, I sense that his eyes have scanned my body, that he’s figured out I don’t have underwear on. And maybe in reality he’s looking at his phone behind me and the last thing he would think about is what’s under my dress, but somehow it doesn’t feel like it. I feel the press of his attention like a hot iron against every part of my body he can see. The back of my legs, the small of my back, my shoulders. My hand as I brace against the wall to balance and put on my Vans—shoes that absolutely don’t work with this dress, but I’m beyond caring. Alec Kim probably dates women who only wear four-inch heels or higher. Who roll out of bed fully made up and who never run out of clean underwear.

But I’m too tired to worry what I look like from the back right now. If thirty-three-year-old Alec Kim wants to check out grown-up me in the cleanest article of clothing I currently own, I’m not going to stop him.





Two


He follows me out into the hall, to the elevator, and the strident chime announcing its arrival startles us both. I catch a hint of his similarly aware smile as he reaches forward, pressing the button for the lobby with a long finger and then stepping to the far side of the car—giving me space again. I pull out my phone and text Eden that I’m okay before looking up at him. A familiar ache hits me right in the center of my chest, radiating out. It’s wild how quickly our bodies remember infatuation.

“Do you come to LA often?”

He gives the slightest shake of his head. “It’s been a few years since my last visit.”

“Is this a work trip?”

Alec gives me his disarming attention again, but this time, something in his expression reads as oddly… tickled? “Yes.”

“What will you be doing there?”

He turns to face the doors as they open and holds his arm out to keep them from closing as I pass. “Endless meetings.”

It’s a weirdly bland answer for someone who looks like he was God’s pet project in the human-design studio. But if he was in the entertainment industry, it would have been the first thing out of his mouth. I’ve met more businessmen than I can count in the past couple weeks and my curiosity about his job is now officially flaccid. I send a silent prayer out that Alec Kim isn’t like any of the executives I’ve spoken to and heard about in London. He’s gorgeous and polite, but I’ve learned that means nothing. Evil loves to hide in pretty packages.