Page 16 of Shy Girls Can't Date Celebrities
An attendant in a red jacket approaches the reception area. The man at the desk gestures at me and Randall, asking the attendant to show us to the presidential suite.
“Certainly,” the attendant replies, taking my bag. “Please, this way, miss.”
We follow the attendant past the large, winding staircase and into a gold elevator. After swiping his key pass below the elevator buttons, the attendant presses the button for the floor second from the top. When we reach our floor, the attendant says, “The entire floor above belongs to the penthouse suite.”
I let out a whistle. “Wow.”
Randall nudges me. “We have the penthouse reserved for Wyatt when he’s released from the clinic.”
My jaw drops and Randall chuckles, returning to his phone.
The attendant swipes a card over the lock on the door labeled ‘Presidential Suite.’
“I can’t believe this is my room.”
He opens the door, welcoming me in. “Here you are.”
I walk in, feeling like I’m stepping into an alternate universe. The opulence is out of control. The attendant continues to show me around, but he may as well be on mute. I’m too overwhelmed to take anything in. From the large dining area with beautiful bouquets of flowers, the spacious sunken living area, to the extensive bar area, I’m about to have a head spin. When he shows me to the bedroom, with a bed that looks like two kings pushed together, and into the bathroom with more marble and gold than I’ve ever seen, I’m ready to keel over.
He then tells me which number to press on the room’s phone to order meals, and the other number for the front desk.
Randall thanks the attendant, tipping him with a few folded bills. I give into the head spin, flopping down on the overstuffed sofa and sigh at the detail work in the ceiling.
Is this a taste of what life as Wyatt Hayes is like?
Whoa. He really is worth mega bucks.
I shiver with a twinge of guilt as Randall comes back into view. “Who’s paying for all this?”
“The team,” he replies vaguely.
“Wyatt?”
“Don’t worry about it. He wants you here. Anyway, you’ll want to order your meals here,” Randall says, texting on his phone. “The food is way better here than at Clearview.”
“Clearview. That’s the hospital right?”
“Correct,” a woman’s voice answers, making me jolt in my seat.
I look over my shoulder and see a woman in a pale green pantsuit, walking into the living area.
She holds out her hand over the back of the sofa. “Erika Hartley,Circle 8 Management.”
I shake her hand, awkwardly twisting and attempting to stand. “Nice to meet you.”
“We’re very glad you’re here, Miss Bartlett,” Erika says. “No one more than Wyatt.”
I suck in an anxious breath. “Re-re-really?”
She smiles, nodding. “Of course. He’s been stuck on you since waking from the induced coma.”
I stand in alarm. “Coma? Wyatt was in a coma?”
Erika pushes a hand down. “Induced. It was a decision by the medical staff in order to help him recover from the trauma of his accident. He was under for no more than two days.”
“Oh, okay,” I say and take a steadying breath. “I haven’t really heard a lot about his accident. It’s been so secretive in the press.”
Erika pulls a document from her purse. “And that’s how we wish it to stay. We’re not thrilled about his memory loss hitting the news cycle, but such is life.” She hands the papers to me. “We need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”
