Beautiful Secret
Page 15
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My humiliation was replaced with something warmer, and calmer, and infinitely sweeter.
I’d been in large cities before—San Diego, San Francisco, Los Angeles, London—but I was pretty sure they were absolutely nothing like New York.
Everything was massive, taking up as little ground as necessary while towering overhead. The buildings crowded the sky, leaving only a strip of gray-blue directly above us. And it was loud. I’d never been somewhere with so much honking—not that anyone on the street seemed to notice. The air was a chorus of horns and shouts, and as we made our way from terminal four of JFK to our car, and from our car to the revolving doors of the Parker Meridien, I didn’t see a single person who seemed bothered by the cacophony.
Niall followed an appropriate distance behind me as we made our way through the lobby—close enough that it was clear we were together, but not together—and we checked into our respective rooms. I was there as Niall’s colleague, not his employee or assistant or . . . even his friend, really, and so I wasn’t given any information about where his room was or, say, what size bed he had in there. I didn’t even get a formal goodbye; when his phone rang, he did little more than offer me a small, polite wave and disappear down a quiet hallway.
No doubt I looked like someone had just walked off with my puppy, and so I jumped slightly when the bellman coughed next to me, clearly waiting to show me upstairs.
Once inside the elevator, the weight of the day hit me like a truck, and it occurred to me that I’d been up since three and caught only a small nap on Niall’s shoulder. A screen embedded into the elevator wall played an old cartoon: Tom nailed Jerry over the head with a hammer, and as they chased each other around a wooden barrel, the elevator climbed to the tenth floor, and I felt my eyes grow heavier and heavier.
I followed the bellman down the hall and watched as he opened my door. In the center of the room was a platform bed big enough for at least four people, opposite a huge flat-screen television. There was a set of art deco chairs in one corner and a window that spanned the entire far wall with a long desk tucked just beneath it.
The bed really did look like something out of a dream—crisp sheets and fluffy pillows—and my body sagged with how much I wanted to collapse, face-first right into it. Unfortunately, I’d learned the hard way how much jet lag sucks, and no matter how much I wanted to, taking a nap was exactly what I shouldn’t do.
Dammit.
It was the second time in the same day I’d bolted upright from a dead sleep. Drooling.
The room around me was almost completely dark, and for a moment, I had no idea where I was. Then it hit me: New York. The hotel.
Niall Stella.
I remembered showering and changing into a robe, deciding to rest my eyes just long enough for room service to get here and, well. Here we were.
I stood, groaning at my stiff muscles while I wiped my face on the sleeve of my robe. Man, when I slept, I slept hard.
As my eyes adjusted, I pushed open the drapes and forced myself to find my phone. There were two texts from my mom wondering if I’d landed yet, and one from Lola checking in. Having been unplugged all day, I held my breath before checking my email.
Meeting tomorrow: that needs a read.
Thoughts from Tony: that can wait until morning.
Sale at Victoria’s Secret: oooh, I’ll flag that one for later.
Note from Niall’s assistant—wait, what?
She’d attached our updated schedule for the following day, along with the time we’d meet in the lobby, and a few points he wanted her to pass along. There was also the number to his cell, “should anything problematic arise.”
I stared at my screen.
I had Niall Stella’s phone number.
Dare I use it? Since I’d most certainly slept through my food being delivered, I could text him and see if he wanted to grab a bite to eat. But that didn’t really fall under the category of problematic, no matter how hungry I was. And if he hadn’t told his assistant to ask me about dinner plans, then I had to assume that was because he’d make his and I’d make mine.
Only then did I realize I really had begun to imagine the next four weeks with Niall Stella and me together in the temporary New York office, or walking along Broadway, or passionately discussing work over meals at great, locals-recommended restaurants. I’d unconsciously imagined the way he would laugh at my new and witty inside jokes over a beer at the end of the day and how we would share knowing looks across the table at our flurry of upcoming meetings.
But the reality was that I was most likely going to be sitting in the back of a crowded room taking notes, then returning alone to this hotel room for a month’s worth of room service meals.
I’d been in large cities before—San Diego, San Francisco, Los Angeles, London—but I was pretty sure they were absolutely nothing like New York.
Everything was massive, taking up as little ground as necessary while towering overhead. The buildings crowded the sky, leaving only a strip of gray-blue directly above us. And it was loud. I’d never been somewhere with so much honking—not that anyone on the street seemed to notice. The air was a chorus of horns and shouts, and as we made our way from terminal four of JFK to our car, and from our car to the revolving doors of the Parker Meridien, I didn’t see a single person who seemed bothered by the cacophony.
Niall followed an appropriate distance behind me as we made our way through the lobby—close enough that it was clear we were together, but not together—and we checked into our respective rooms. I was there as Niall’s colleague, not his employee or assistant or . . . even his friend, really, and so I wasn’t given any information about where his room was or, say, what size bed he had in there. I didn’t even get a formal goodbye; when his phone rang, he did little more than offer me a small, polite wave and disappear down a quiet hallway.
No doubt I looked like someone had just walked off with my puppy, and so I jumped slightly when the bellman coughed next to me, clearly waiting to show me upstairs.
Once inside the elevator, the weight of the day hit me like a truck, and it occurred to me that I’d been up since three and caught only a small nap on Niall’s shoulder. A screen embedded into the elevator wall played an old cartoon: Tom nailed Jerry over the head with a hammer, and as they chased each other around a wooden barrel, the elevator climbed to the tenth floor, and I felt my eyes grow heavier and heavier.
I followed the bellman down the hall and watched as he opened my door. In the center of the room was a platform bed big enough for at least four people, opposite a huge flat-screen television. There was a set of art deco chairs in one corner and a window that spanned the entire far wall with a long desk tucked just beneath it.
The bed really did look like something out of a dream—crisp sheets and fluffy pillows—and my body sagged with how much I wanted to collapse, face-first right into it. Unfortunately, I’d learned the hard way how much jet lag sucks, and no matter how much I wanted to, taking a nap was exactly what I shouldn’t do.
Dammit.
It was the second time in the same day I’d bolted upright from a dead sleep. Drooling.
The room around me was almost completely dark, and for a moment, I had no idea where I was. Then it hit me: New York. The hotel.
Niall Stella.
I remembered showering and changing into a robe, deciding to rest my eyes just long enough for room service to get here and, well. Here we were.
I stood, groaning at my stiff muscles while I wiped my face on the sleeve of my robe. Man, when I slept, I slept hard.
As my eyes adjusted, I pushed open the drapes and forced myself to find my phone. There were two texts from my mom wondering if I’d landed yet, and one from Lola checking in. Having been unplugged all day, I held my breath before checking my email.
Meeting tomorrow: that needs a read.
Thoughts from Tony: that can wait until morning.
Sale at Victoria’s Secret: oooh, I’ll flag that one for later.
Note from Niall’s assistant—wait, what?
She’d attached our updated schedule for the following day, along with the time we’d meet in the lobby, and a few points he wanted her to pass along. There was also the number to his cell, “should anything problematic arise.”
I stared at my screen.
I had Niall Stella’s phone number.
Dare I use it? Since I’d most certainly slept through my food being delivered, I could text him and see if he wanted to grab a bite to eat. But that didn’t really fall under the category of problematic, no matter how hungry I was. And if he hadn’t told his assistant to ask me about dinner plans, then I had to assume that was because he’d make his and I’d make mine.
Only then did I realize I really had begun to imagine the next four weeks with Niall Stella and me together in the temporary New York office, or walking along Broadway, or passionately discussing work over meals at great, locals-recommended restaurants. I’d unconsciously imagined the way he would laugh at my new and witty inside jokes over a beer at the end of the day and how we would share knowing looks across the table at our flurry of upcoming meetings.
But the reality was that I was most likely going to be sitting in the back of a crowded room taking notes, then returning alone to this hotel room for a month’s worth of room service meals.
