Page 72 of Only the Wicked
The private airport we’re landing in is outside of D.C. proper, but the area is so developed buildings fill the landscape. There’s not much to see.
She didn’t say no to visiting, but she didn’t say yes, either.
I’d like to win her over before she learns who I am. Before she’s bored in front of her laptop and queries my name.
Am I looking for a serious relationship? No. The obligations? The fights? The guilt? Definitely not.
But do I want to keep seeing this breath of fresh air? Yes.
Would I prefer she not learn my net worth for quite some time? Also, yes. But preferences are not always feasible.
The plane lands, and as we taxi, she removes her phone and checks it for incoming messages.
I check the time. I have a meeting at the Russian embassy at three and then drinks with Evie at four.
Sydney’s sundress worked perfectly in the Highlands, but she’s going to need an appropriate wardrobe if she’s my plus one over the weekend.
“You live close, right?”
“I don’t know exactly where we are,” she answers, looking up from her screen.
“Just outside of D.C.” I don’t know exactly where we are either, but I know from looking on the map she doesn’t live too far from the D.C. metro area. “Do you want to swing by your place to swap out clothes?”
She hesitates, like she can’t decide how to answer.
She could easily decide she’d rather go home than join me at a nearby hotel for the weekend.
“Tell you what. Forget I asked.”
I tap a message to Elena, a personal shopper in the D.C. area who’s saved me from numerous wardrobe emergencies when business trips ran long.
“I’ve got it handled.”
“What exactly do you have handled?”
Her head tilts to the side, and I smile, excited for what’s in store. “The weekend.”
Chapter
Nineteen
Sydney
The Willard InterContinental is known as “the residence of presidents,” and I suppose I should have expected the tech titan Rhodes MacMillan would choose to stay at such a prestigious location, yet it’s not what I would have predicted from the outdoorsy, laidback guy I’ve spent the last several days with in the mountains. The lobby’s high ceilings and marble columns command respect, and the traditional furnishings speak of times of grandeur. The air feels different here—cooler, crisper, with the subtle scent of lemon polish and old money. My footsteps echo against the marble, a stark contrast to the soft crunch of mountain trails. Even the light is different, filtered through crystal chandeliers rather than forest canopy, casting everything in a formal glow.
Every single president since Franklin Pierce has either slept in the hotel or attended an event on site. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote his “I have a dream” speech from his hotel room in this hotel in 1963.
I’ve visited the hotel before, driven by it countless times, but I’ve never stayed overnight.
Hotel guests dressed in a mix of business casual and expensive-looking suits meander through the lobby.
“Yes sir, it appears,” the woman behind the check-in desk squints, leaning closer to the monitor, “you have a delivery awaiting in your suite. Suite 7.” She beams as if she’s announced we’ve been given access to Shangri-La. “How many room keys would you like?”
“Two, please.”
“Excellent. Simply hold the card up to the pad. You’ll need your card in the elevator as well to gain access to your suite. Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“No, we’re good.”
