Page 9 of Lucky Night

It stops.

See?

But she doesn’t see.

That was at least twenty seconds. She moves toward the door.

Jenny, what are you—Jesus, don’t open the door.

I won’t. She places both hands on it, palms flat. She’s feeling the door for heat! Their clothes are heaped beside her in the vestibule. He’d stripped her right there and dragged her to the bed, both of them frantic and laughing. It had been so long.

I think I smell smoke, she says. Will you call down?

Call down?

To the front desk. Ask them what’s goingon.

This is a new hotel, he says. They’re testing the system or something. It’s not—what are you doing now?

She’s bending, nose to the doorjamb, ass high in the air.

She sniffs.

Well now. This is interesting. She’s distracted. He could go over there, grabbing the baby oil on the way. She squats farther, handson her knees. He’s brought the same small bottle to every meeting, in case he finds her in a receptive mood. The thing’s like a holy relic by now.

She’s pressing her ear against the door. I can hear people in the hallway.

I don’t doubt it. He’s out of bed and rummaging through his roller bag. They were probably drawn by the sound of your fraudulent orgasms.

Oh my God, Nick, will you drop it? It doesn’t matter!

Doesn’t matter. He pulls out his Dopp kit. Doesn’t matter. Right. Hey, none of this matters. Their thing—never did, never could. Where the hell is the baby oil? This has always been a purely physical arrangement. Sure, there were moments, early on, when he was bowled over by her. She was beautiful, she was smart. You open a door, and your arms, and she’s there. What was it she’d said when she came in? Something surprising. Anyway yes, early on, blown away, overglowed, he would look at her and consider the possibility. Love? he’d think, as they caught their breath on various beds, in various rooms. When she let loose with her raucous laugh at something he said, or launched into one of her rambling stories. Could I? Could we? Could this?

He searches the outside pocket of his suitcase. He didn’t leave the baby oil on the bathroom vanity, did he? Because Jesus that’s going to be a whole conversation with Caroline when he gets home.

She inhales audibly. He sees her shoulders rise with the effort.

Hey, he says. McGruff the Crime Dog. There’s no smoke.

Could we? Could this? No, he decided, every time. It’s the glow. Lust plus like. Plenty of like. Even now, when she’s acting like a nutjob. She’s great company. She’s charming and funny. It’s been immense fun to watch her transformation from harried homemaker into successful author. Massively successful. Who would have thought? Young adult novels, of the paranormal romance variety. Two so far. Sold millions of copies.

So, no. Love has never been on the table. But so much else is.The table is groaning, it’s a feast of delights. He has so much. This night, this room, this woman.

Who’s feeling the door again, trying to gauge the heat of the imaginary inferno raging on the other side.

Enough.

He abandons his search for the baby oil—please Christ don’t let him have left it on the vanity!—and joins her at the door, which he unlocks and flings open.

The hallway is empty.

Stretching into the distance in both directions, the carpet spotless, the lighting expensively dim. No dazed and panicked guests. No shouts or running footsteps. No smoke.

All this he displays to her, throwing an arm wide, the way he does in front of juries. See? Do you see, people? Do yousee?

She nods. She sees. Outstanding.

He closes the door. Now they can get back to the serious business of their mutual—

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