Page 47 of How NOT to Seduce a Rockstar
Inside, it felt like stepping into a dream designed by a billionaire architect with an unhealthy obsession for animal comfort.
The air was warm, velvety, laced with fresh-cut grass and something indefinably soothing—like bottled inner peace. In the background, soft hypnotic jazz floated—the kind of tune that could convince a hyperactive bulldog to sign up for meditation classes. White faux-fur armchairsformed private little lounges, while aquariums set into the walls displayed fish with fins so long they looked like evening gowns. Here and there, crystal bowls filled with “filtered water for discerning pets” sparkled under the low lights.
At the mini reception desk, a man in a flawless gray suit was bottle-feeding a tiny orange kitten, without a trace of irony. Over his jacket he wore a lilac apron tied with elegance. The name tag on his chest read:Lucas.
He looked up and smiled with the serene poise of someone trained to handle any emergency, including two wobbly strangers. “Good afternoon, ladies. How may I help you?”
“Bonjour, Lucas,” Tess said, in an improbable cartoon-French accent. “We just flew in from Paris. We only wanted a quick look around…”
Lucas kept smiling, though his eyes flashed a polite-but-firmnot today, thank you.“Well, welcome to the Vellum Hotel. Unfortunately, this area isn’t accessible to human guests.”
“Oh, but my kitty is upstairs, Mr. Darcy. I thought I could bring him down here, let him play in this beautiful oasis.”
Lucas shook his head with the gentle firmness of a pacifist bouncer. “I’m sorry, miss. To guarantee the well-being and serenity of our animals—and for security reasons—the Vellum Animal Club is strictly off-limits to owners or any hotel guests. Ourphilosophy is that every animal, even for just a few hours, deserves a break from their humans. No stress, no anxious stares. Only cuddles, play, and relaxation.”
Tess leaned on the counter, tilting her head and arching one brow in whatThe Seduction Manualprobably calledDeath Stare, Level 3.“Come on, Lucas. You won’t even let me take a little stroll around without touching anything?”
He didn’t blink. “Miss, not even Beyoncé has ever been allowed inside the Vellum Animal Club. And she tried. Twice.”
Before we could argue, a woman in her fifties swept in, wrapped in a cloud of jasmine perfume thick enough to lean on. Tucked under her arm: an ermine with the weary, jaded expression of an aristocrat done with the world.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosen! Good afternoon, young Dorian!” Lucas trilled, gently placing the kitten in a velvet cradle before scooping up the ermine with dancer-like grace.
Mrs. Rosen, without so much as glancing at us, declared: “Lucas, today Dorian needs Chopin. Only nocturnes, please. And be sure to return him to my suite by seven. With a new cape. Italian silk.”
“Of course, Mrs. Rosen,” Lucas said, bowing ever so slightly.
He set Dorian back down, clipping a leash of ivory-colored leather onto his collar. Mrs. Rosenswept out, leaving behind a trail of old money, hand-pressed linens, and unattainable standards of living.
Lucas turned back to us, smiling that flawless, final smile that left no room for discussion. With one polite but unmistakable gesture, he pointed us toward the door.
Outside the Club, Tess let out a sigh. “Lucas is immune to my charm—he’s gay. And while I’m already operating at a ridiculously high level of seduction, I’m not yet at the Countess’s tier, where you can bend someone’s orientation. But one day… who knows.”
“So?” I asked, already certain I wouldn’t like the answer.
A mischievous spark lit up her eyes—the kind of spark that, in my nightmares, always foreshadows disaster.
“Come with me. I’ve got an idea.”
23
The sidewalk trembled under our feet—proof that a subway train was rumbling right beneath us. Steam hissed up through the grates, wrapping itself around every kind of passerby: men in suits sprinting with coffees in hand, skateboard kids, women hauling canvas totes full of fresh produce. A pretzel vendor shouted deals at a cab driver, who replied in honks. Somewhere far off: sirens and squealing brakes.
Through all of it, Tess marched with military precision, her eyes scanning the horizon. I trailed behind, weaving between a guy shoving a dolly stacked with boxes and a woman arguing passionately with a ghost.
“Wait,” I said, trying to keep up. “Let me get this straight. We’re looking for… an injured animal?”
Tess, dead serious: “A needy animal. Injured is ideal. Desperate works too. The key is dramatic eyes.”
“Oh. And then what—drag it into the snobbiesthotel in New York and go, ‘Good afternoon, would you mind taking care of this?’”
“Exactly.”
I stopped dead. Right in front of us, a rat limped across the street, tail wagging like a bent antenna.
“There,” I said, pointing at the creature, drunk with inspiration. “That’s our guy. Go get him. Perfect.”
“It. Is. A. Rat,” Tess spat, horrified.
