Page 8 of Whiskey & Wreckage

One message at the top catches my eye:

Unknown number: You alive, peanut warrior?

My stomach does a little somersault. A rush of something warm, something not regret, spreads through my chest.

Thomas.

I still don’t know his last name. He never gave it to me. I never asked. It doesn’t matter right now.

Me: Barely. Whiskey: 1, Poppy: 0.

His reply comes fast.

Thomas: You seemed pretty confident you were winning last night.

I groan into my robe sleeve and type back.

Me: Thanks again for making sure I didn’t end up face down in a planter or something. And… sorry for the emotional meltdown.

Thomas: No worries. Glad you’re safe.

Short, sincere, no judgment. Just… Thomas.

Me: I’m at a hotel, right? Like, an actual hotel? Not some weird hallucination?

Thomas: Real hotel. Very real. You’re in good hands.

Before I can reply, a knock at the door startles me so hard I actually squeak.

I freeze, eyes darting toward the door like someone’s about to bust in with a camera crew. The robe suddenly feels less like armor and more like a towel I stole off a spa chair.

Another knock, softer.

“Room service,” a voice calls politely through the door.

I creep toward the peephole and peek through. An older gentleman stands there in a crisp black-and-gold uniform, standing beside a gleaming silver cart loaded with covered trays.

I crack the door open an inch. “I didn’t order this.”

He smiles kindly. “Someone called it in for you, miss.”

My brain short-circuits. “Oh.”

“May I?” he gestures toward the cart.

I nod, dazed, and open the door wider.

He wheels it in with practiced ease, positioning it neatly beside the window. “Breakfast is served. Enjoy, and have a lovely morning.”

He gives me a polite nod and is gone before I can ask anything else.

I stare at the cart like it might bite me.

There’s a silver coffee carafe, steam curling from the spout. Two thick Belgian waffles dusted with powdered sugar. A small dish of butter, a pitcher of syrup. Crispy bacon. A fruit bowl that looks like it was arranged by a food stylist. A plate of eggs. A tiny glass of orange juice. A single perfect croissant.

And a tiny card tucked under the plate with my name on it. No message. Just my name.Poppy.

My stomach lets out a low, indecent growl.

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