Page 26 of Doctored Vows

“Same. I could have sworn I set my alarm, but this week has been such a clusterf…”—when his eyes connect with mine in the steel dashboard, and he glares at me with the same intensity as when I tried to apologize, I switch out my cuss word for one that’s more appropriate, like I am speaking with my grandmother—“fudge, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

His smirk is barely visible, but I act like I got a standing ovation from the audience at a comedy club. My insides gleam as brightly as my cheeks when my deviant head stores his facial quirks for future self-pleasuring expeditions.

I squirm like I’m busting to use the restroom, and the undeniable aroma of lust fills the elevator, which is awkward when we’re joined by a couple on the thirty-third floor.

“Morning,” I mumble before moving to the back of the elevator, fighting not to apologize for the atrocious conditions I forced them into.

When the elevator finally arrives on level two, Maksim gestures for the couple and me to exit before him. He could be being cordial because we’re not alone, but it makes my heart beat a little faster.

Maksim’s brow arches when I fail to follow the couple out.

“I’m going to the buffet,” I announce, struggling not to gleam like a pig about to eat out of a trough. That’s usually how I describe Zoya’s and my eating habits when treated to an endless stream of food.

Maksim’s crimped lips are more noticeable this time around. “The buffet is on the second floor.”

“Oh.” When I step out of the elevator, the undeniable scent of bacon, eggs, and sausages can’t be missed—and neither can the concerned face of my best friend.

How did she beat me? We only stopped to collect one set of passengers.

“They’re not letting us in,” Zoya announces, heading my way. “They said the cutoff is eleven, and there are no exceptions for anyone.” Her disappointed huff ruffles my unbrushed hair. “I think I have some mints in my bag.”

I butt shoulders with her before joining her watch of the dismantling of the food we were hoping to consume. “It’s okay. I have that twenty dollars I had planned to use for an upgrade. We could grab a day’s worth of supplies with that.”

It dawns on me that our penny-counting ways are being witnessed by the last person I want to subject them to when Maksim’s demanding tone prickles the hairs on my nape. “Wait here.”

Zoya eyeballs me as if my reaction to Maksim approaching the restaurant hostess will be more entertaining than their exchange.

She isn’t far off the mark. I’m more jealous than pleased when Maksim’s presence switches the hostess’s personality from bitchy to bubbly in under a second.

She practically fawns over him, her gloating only ending when she tilts out of his shadow and signals for us to enter the restaurant behind Maksim and her.

“Don’t be jelly,” Zoya teases as we enter a space that could seat hundreds. “Even if the buffet weren’t included in his room package, I’d let him in too. He’s hot!”

“Shut up,” Zoya demands when her waddle out of the restaurant has her midsection swaying like she’s in the last month of pregnancy. “I had to sneak in extra because you forgot to bring your coat to breakfast.”

We’re high-end grifters. We don’t steal buffet food by walking it out in our hands. We hide it in our clothes. I just can’t today because my sleepwear leaves little to the imagination.

I can’t even hide a banana.

Well, I could, but that could gain me even more questioning looks than I got throughout breakfast.

The flirty hostess left shortly after seating us, but the staff required to replace the supplies they began dismantling when the clock struck eleven didn’t conceal their surprise.

You’d swear they’ve never worked a minute of overtime.

I’m reminded why my maturity has dropped into an abyss the past twenty-four hours when Zoya says, “I’ve heard Greek yogurt is good for thrush, but I thought you were meant to eat it, not have it dribble down your thighs.”

She often tells me doctors mature backward since they endure twelve years of nonstop studying and exams. I’m not meant to hit the teenage rebellion I missed out on during high school for another two years.

When Zoya grimaces, I inch back and lower my eyes to the back of her coat. “Are you leaking?”

I stop checking for any slip hazards she may have left for unsuspecting hotel guests when she replies, “Not any worse than you.” She nudges her head to the cleanup crew once again dismantling the buffet. “They’re not mopping up apple juice.” Since I know her better than I know myself, I rib her with my elbow. It silences her for barely a second. “I get it. He’s hot, and his leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes only make me want to gawk at him more. But when he scowls…”—a moan vibrates her lips—“even my panties get sticky.”

I almost laugh until I remember it will encourage more nosy-Nancying. “You need to stop bringing your panties into every conversation we have.” Shockingly, my voice is professional, without the quiver of the giggles in my chest.

Zoya appears disgusted. “Why? I have a best friend for a reason.”

When we reach the elevators, the closest one is open but packed with hotel guests.

---