Page 23 of Never Sleep with the Enemy

8

KATRINA

Ipause outside his suite on the 18th floor.

The hallway stretches in both directions, paths wide open for me to take. I could drop the robe now and go back downstairs, return to the party.

In fact, that’s exactly what I should do.

I should turn around, march straight to the hotel bar where all my friends have coupled up, laughing, embracing after a long week apart—but I won’t be alone! No. There’s a whole gang of handsome, wealthy single men down there waiting to grope my ass and?—

I knock on the door.

Before I can take a breath, it swings open.

On Tesla Kyle.

Guitarist of The Electrics.

She stands in the doorway, electric blue hair tied back in a messy ponytail, stray strands falling to frame her face. Soft measuring tape hangs limply around her shoulders, draping over a well-loved tank top that’s torn in several places.

Her face lights up at the sight of me—then falters. “Hey,” she says, squinting. “You’re not my turkey burger.”

“Oh, uh… no. I’m not,” I say, lifting the heavy blue robe in my hands like a shield. “I actually stopped by to?—”

“Come in,” she says.

“No, I’m just?—”

“Perfect!”

“Huh?”

Tesla’s eyes sparkle. “Come in!” she repeats, lurching forward to grab my forearm. “Model for me.”

“Model?”

She yanks me inside. I stumble, the robe slipping from my fingers as she drags me toward the bed. Fabric is sprawled across it—mostly yellow, most of it half-sewn, pinned, or in various stages of repair.

She lets go as I reach the edge, and I nearly face-plant into the pillows.

“Actually,” I say tentatively, “I should really get going?—”

“This’ll only take a minute,” Tesla says from behind me. “Arms.”

“Arms?”

“Arms! Put ’em up!”

I obey, slowly raising them. Before I can think to question it, Tesla grips the bottom of my bridesmaid dress and yanks it up.

“Hey—!”I slap my hands over myself, barely covered in a strapless flesh-colored bra and white shorts.

Tesla doesn’t care. She’s already scanning the bed, humming to herself as she plucks something from the pile.

“Hands,” she says.

“Hands?”

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