Page 23 of Beautiful Revenge
And just like that, gone is his amused expression. He sobers in an instant. “I’m no hero.”
“There’s nothing more appealing than a hero who doesn’t see it. So thank you, Devon. You saved me, and you did it with a deep, English accent. What more could a girl ask for?”
He exhales like he’s exhausted and it’s barely past breakfast. “Back to why I’m here. I tried to talk to you about it yesterday, but the whole thing happened with your stepmum and dad. There’s no availability to extend your stay.”
It’s my turn to sober. “What do you mean?”
“I mean we’re booked solid starting tonight. Check out is in two hours. I can probably give you four if you need extra time to get your shi—I mean, pack.”
“But I only need a couple weeks. Surely, you’ll have a cancellation or something. I don’t need the suite. I’ll take a basic room.”
He shakes his head and proceeds to rip my heart in two. “We’ve only been open for a few months. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve had a cancellation. Nobody cancels, nor do they check out early—last nightnotwithstanding. Your wedding seems to be the outlier to everything.”
Damn. I had a plan. I was in complete control for a change. It was the only thing keeping me sane all these weeks. That and Chrissie. And I’m not sure when she’ll be able to join me.
“But there’s nowhere else to stay in Winslet.”
“There is the motel. Just a heads up, I mentioned it to Albert. Not that he’s likely to check in there, but desperation has done crazier things,” he states. “I’m sure you have an assistant or a travel agent who can get you booked into a five-star spa to recover from the wedding.”
“There was no wedding,” I snap. All of a sudden, I feel more exposed than ever. I ignore Devon, tuck my wet hair behind my ear, and move to the primary bedroom of the suite.
“Harlow,” he calls for me.
I don’t shut the door and go straight to the bathroom. It’s all I can do to keep my hands from trembling. I know I could go anywhere—that’s not the problem. I don’t want to be anywhere but here.
In Winslet.
There’s a knock on the doorframe to the bedroom when I hear him call, “You okay?”
“Fine,” I clip as I start tossing bottles, tubes, and makeup brushes haphazardly into a bag.
“You don’t sound fine. Can I come in?”
I clear my voice and do my best to even my tone. “It’s your manor.”
I hear his mutter come from the bedroom. “Bloody, fucking bullocks. I’m coming in. You’d better be dressed or shit’s about to get more awkward than it already is.”
I move to my moisturizers and serums. “I’ll be out of your hair in two hours. Nothing will be awkward after that.”
I jerk when he appears in the mirror behind me, and I accidentally drop a bottle in the marble sink.
He folds his arms and stares at me through the reflection. “Are you telling me you don’t have anywhere to go?”
“I never said that. But I need to be in Winslet. I couldn’t very well extend my stay when I was supposed to be on safarion my fucking honeymoon. There was no way I could have...” I brace against the counter and hold his gaze in the mirror as my words trail off. I lick my lips and swallow over the lump in my throat and fight the tears that threaten to burst. “I can make other plans. I’ll figure it out, but I need to get changed and pack. My stuff is spread all over the place. I’ll be gone by checkout. I don’t want to put your staff behind.”
He doesn’t take my dismissing him as his cue to leave. In fact, he doesn’t move a muscle. “Why do you need to be in Winslet?”
I shake my head and turn back to the mess left over from wedding prep. “It’s none of your business. I’ll be fine.”
“Harlow.” He bites my name with conviction in a way that demands my attention. His expression is as demanding as my name. “Answer me.”
I toss the rest of the small bottles into the makeup bag. “I’ve had a few tough weeks. My mom grew up in Winslet. I feel closer to her when I’m here. I have a plan, but that plan won’t happen until next month. Albert insisted I sell my place in the city. He said we wouldn’t need it. He lives in the Upper East Side. I was supposed to move in with him.Was...”
He sighs. “You don’t have a place to go.”
I glare at him. “My father owns homes all over the world. I have plenty of places to go. Having somewhere to go and wanting to be somewhere are two very different things.”
He shakes his head before dragging a hand down his face. I’m surprised he doesn’t string a long line of curse words together again, but he doesn’t. Instead, what he says confuses me. “I have a penthouse suite.”
