Page 7 of Mania

My gaze lands on Miss Fortune, waiting next to the reception desk. She’s changed from ripped jeans shorts to something a little more put together: a flared black skirt—much too short—and a t-shirt, her brown hair combed into one thick braid over her right shoulder.

“Mr. Ambrose,” she squeaks when she notices me.

“Miss Fortune,” I reply, stepping up to the reception desk.

Her brown eyes flicker with unease, dancing over the hotel lobby, wringing her hands nervously. “I didn’t realize you’d be the one training me …”

I eye her warily. “Who else were you expecting?”

Her laugh is full of nerves. “I — just not you, I guess.” She shrugs and looks away. “Is what I’m wearing okay?” She looks down at her clothes, smoothing her hands over her skirt. “You didn’t mention if there was a dress code.”

I grant myself the indulgence of studying her a little while longer.

Thick thighs disappearing under her skirt, wide hips, soft stomach, the black cotton of her shirt straining over the fullness of her breasts.

When I reach her inquiring gaze, I clear my throat and nod.

“It will do,” I respond coldly. Taking a step back, I sweep my hand toward one of the corridors. “We can start with a tour of the hotel so you can familiarize yourself with the establishment.”

She smiles widely and nods, seemingly eager to please, and my heart speeds up. I pretend she does not affect me as I lead her away from the reception area.

I could walk these halls with my eyes closed, recall every groove in the stairs, every creak the floorboard makes just by memory. I know the hotel as intimately as I would a lover. I know every sound it makes, what satiates it, what it dislikes.

I can no longer remember anything beforeit.

Maybe time never existed before this.

Maybe my time at the hotel reaches as far as the beginning of the universe—always expanding, pulsing with life …

It sure feels that way sometimes.

I show Miss Fortune all the areas she’s allowed access to as a part of the staff—recreation room, kitchen, laundry room—making our way all the way up to the sixth floor.

Noticing a sign for a pool on the rooftop, she turns to me with her eyebrows half-raised. “I didn’t know there was a pool.”

“It’s closed. It has been for years. No one is allowed up there anymore.”

“How come?”

Uninterested in answering her question, I start back for the elevators.

“Wait,” she presses.

Then something unbelievable happens.

Her fingers wrap around my wrist, and I’m nearly brought to my knees, her skin so soft I almost choke on the air in my lungs.

My eyes widen as I slowly turn my head to peer down at where our two bodies connect. “How can you …”

She sucks in a sharp breath at the expression on my face, letting go of my wrist and takes a step back.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to,” she stutters, confusion painted over her features.

I let the silence coil around us, pressing my lips into a thin line and trying to calm my breathing before I speak again as I hide my shaky hands behind my back. Still waters, but inside I’m reeling with the presence of her touch still pulsing on my skin.

“Now that you are an employee of the Ambrose Hotel, room and board is included and you will need to change rooms,” I finally say. A smallOhescapes her lips. “I’ll wait foryou to gather your things and escort you to your new lodgings.”

While I waitoutside her room, I resist the urge to bite my nails till they’re bleeding as I fight against an erratic energy thrumming through my veins.

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