Page 100 of In Love with Lewis Prescott
“Oh my gosh! How romantic!”
“Go get ’em,anak!”
Adrenaline rockets through me at the same time that a million anxiety knots form in my stomach. Should I seriously crash his press conference to tell him I love him?
“I—I don’t even know if the press conference is still going on,” I stammer, then look at the time on my phone. “It’s already past seven.”
“You should at least try and go to him,anak.”
The longer I think about it, the less insane it seems. A long moment passes with everyone in the room quietly staring at me, clearly waiting to see what I’m going to do.
“I can’t drive. I’ve had, like, three glasses of wine.”
Naomi and Maren grab my hands. “We’ll take you to him.”
“Haven’t you both been drinking?”
Naomi shakes her head. “I haven’t. I’ll drive you. We can take Simon’s car.”
“I’ll navigate,” Simon says.
“I can help. And I’ll cheer you on!” Maren says.
Uncle Pedro rises from the couch. “I will too. You got room for an old guy to tag along?”
I laugh, my nerves haywire but at the same time heartened that I have so many people in my life who are willing to drop everything to help me pull off this absolutely insane stunt.
“Okay, yes. Let’s do this.”
Half an hour later we’re minutes away from San Francisco city limits, headed to the Palace Hotel. Sitting in the passenger seat of Simon’s Audi, I dial Lewis’s number for the millionth time.
“He’s still not answering,” I mumble.
“It’s okay! We’re gonna help you get to him,” Maren says to me from the back seat. “Naomi, when you hit the freeway, merge left.”
She grips my shoulder. “It’s honestly probably even better that he doesn’t know you’re coming. It makes this grand gesture so romantic. He’ll be totally shocked when you burst into the hotel and declare your love for him.”
“I appreciate your optimistic outlook, but the Palace Hotel is massive, and I have no idea where the press conference is being held—or if it’s still going on.”
“Wait, let me try and call the hotel.”
“Remember what I said about the pseudonym, though.”
Maren nods at Simon. “Take over navigating, will you?”
“Sure. Babe, take the exit for Fourth Street,” he says to Naomi.
A minute later, Maren finally hangs up. “Press conference is still going on! In the ballroom on the east side of the main floor of the hotel!” she says. “But we gotta hurry, because it’s supposed to wrap up in ten minutes.”
“No problem.” Naomi floors it.
The force of the acceleration thrusts us against our seats. I turn to check on Uncle Pedro, but he’s gripping the “oh shit” handle and grinning, looking more alive than I’ve seen in months. Minutes later we screech to a halt at the entrance of the hotel. I hop out and admire the Beaux Arts–style exterior of this iconic hotel that takes up a good chunk of a city block. A valet appears right as we all jump out of the car. Naomi hands him the keys, and she, Maren, and I dart into the hotel entrance while Simon helps Uncle Pedro walk in behind us.
In the past when I’ve walked into this hotel for a business meeting, I’ve always taken a few seconds to gawk at the Gilded Age–inspired architecture and design. But I don’t even glance at the massive marble pillars lining the lobby or the dozens of candelabra chandeliers draped in thousands upon thousands of crystals. I make a beeline for the end of the lobby and turn left for the ballroom. Behind me I hear the hurried footsteps of Naomi and Maren.
“On your right, Harper!”
I follow Maren’s shouted instructions behind me and head toward the massive wooden door, but I stop when I see a menacing-looking security guard standing in the way.
