Page 106 of Unfaithful

I let out a chuckle, shaking my head. "Oh, no, no. Definitely not." He had a point. We were two single guys raising a kid—it might give off the wrong impression.

"She'll call me by my name," I assured him. "I want her to call me Cole."

"Deal," he said with a small nod.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Archibald

I stepped out of the black sedan and looked up.

The Imperium Suites. Of course. Henry, the little shit, would put me in a place like this, no matter how many times I told him I just wanted something simple. In his world, the five-star hotel was probably a modest guesthouse.

I had been drifting in and out for eighteen months—brief visits before disappearing again, never staying long enough for doubt to creep in. But this time was different. This time, I was here to stay.

Yet now that I was back, the certainty I had clung to wavered. For the first time, I wasn't sure if I was ready.

My mind pulled me back to the last time I was in the city. To Sara's place. We talked. And by morning, I was gone, vanishing like a ghost.

I hadn't just left. I had thrown myself into the most dangerous job I could find, reckless in my desperation to escape. My dad tried to reason with me, but I wouldn't listen. I was too determined to outrun the pain, to convince myself that leaving was the only option. That she was better off without me.

But no matter how far I went or how much I risked, I could never really forget her. Every day, I tried to bury the memory, pushing it to the edges of my mind, but it always crept back in. And each time, I reminded myself why I had to stay away.

For her. For myself. Because no matter how much it hurt, walking away had been the only way forward.

Now, all I had to do was stay strong and resist the overwhelming urge to see her again.

The moment I stepped into the lobby, people stared. I must have looked like hell. My white shirt had seen better days—three days ago, to be exact—when it wasn't glued to my skin. The jacket slung over my shoulder reeked of rotten meat. My pants were streaked with dirt, and my combat boots looked like they'd been dragged through a swamp. Which, technically, they had. Forty hours ago.

I headed for the reception desk.

"May I help you?" The receptionist greeted me with a forced smile, her nose wrinkling.

I frowned. If she could smell me from this distance, then I really was in awful shape. I probably should have taken a shower on the company plane and swapped my clothes and boots for the fresh ones Henry had prepared. But I was dead on my feet, and the second we took off, I crashed. By the time I woke up, the plane had already landed.

I cleared my throat. "I have a reservation. Archibald Lowe."

She worked on her computer and paused to reread, flicking her gaze between me and her screen. Then she said, "May I see some IDs?"

I gave her my ID and passport, hoping more identification would ease her suspicion. I would have offered her my credit card so that she could believe me, but I didn't have it in my wallet at the moment. I never brought credit cards on any of my deployments. It was too dangerous, with thieves and smugglers constantly around. As painful as it was to admit, I understoodwhy she found it hard to believe the name belonged to someone looking as filthy as me.

Gripping my ID and my opened passport in each hand, she tried to compare if the man standing before her was the same man in the pictures. Again, I didn’t blame her. My beard made me look like a creepy, tattooed Santa.

"Chrystal," I read her name from the pin on her chest. "If you need more confirmation, call Mr. Song and get him down here."

She blinked at me a few times after hearing that name—probably her boss or her boss's boss—and looked like she was contemplating it. Then she picked up the phone and, to my dismay, actually made the call. She whispered into the receiver, covering her mouth with her hand.

I let out a resigned sigh. I couldn’t wait to take off these filthy clothes and soak myself in a long, hot shower.

When Chrystal put down the phone, there was a different light in her gaze. "I'm sorry for the wait, Mr. Lowe. Someone will be here shortly to take you to your room." She walked around her counter and gestured toward the lounge area. I glanced over and frowned. There were too many people there. I didn’t want to torture them with my smell.

"I'll wait there," I pointed to a wall near the fountain and sauntered there without waiting for her response. Hopefully, she realized I had just saved her from further nasal damage by not standing in front of her any longer.

Within a few minutes, a man with narrow eyes and incredibly smooth skin rushed toward me, panting as he reached me.

"Mr. Lowe," he huffed and inhaled deeply to steady his breath after seeming like he ran a marathon to reach here.

"Mr. Song," I greeted him, straightening my posture.

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