Page 11 of About Last Night

THURSDAY 11:30PM

DEREK MARVELEDat the turn of events as he stumbled toward the elevator. Steve had one kinky nut of a fiancée on his hands, that much was certain. His buddy's and his brother's escapades with women never ceased to amaze him, and every time he felt the least bit jealous of their ability to attract the most outrageous litter of sex kittens, he reminded himself that their lives were rollercoasters, and his life was a... a...

He frowned and rubbed his temple to focus his train of thought. Searching for a metaphor to symbolize his solid, responsible position in the amusement park of life, the best he could come up with was... a chaperone.

God, he felt older than his thirty-five years.

Thankfully the elevator arrived, rousing him from his unsettling contemplation. On the ride to the lobby, he scoffed at the memory of Janine Murphy straddling him, thinking he was Steve. Tomorrow when he felt better, he was sure he'd have a belly laugh over the case of mistaken identity, but for now he desperately needed sleep. He glanced at his watch and groaned. Almost two in the morning, which meant he'd been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, thanks to Donald Phillips. And Steve Larsen. Oh, and the randy bride-to-be.

Back in Lexington, Donald Phillips was one of the largest producers of honey in the Southeast. Dissatisfied with hisproduct sales, Phillips had decided to shop around for a new advertising firm, and Stillman & Sons, which at the moment consisted solely of himself, was being given the opportunity to swipe the account from a larger competitor. But Derek was having one little problem: inventing a campaign designed to entice consumers to buy more honey.Honey,for crissake—a sweet condiment best known in the South for spreading on toast and biscuits; consequently, market growth was not projected to be explosive.

Game systems and AI smart phones and virtual reality goggles were flying off the shelves. Branded sportswear and gourmet appliances and exercise equipment sales were booming. Electric vehicles and exotic vacations and infinity swimming pools were experiencing a huge resurgence. With all the sexy, progressive products in the world, he was chasing a darnedhoneyaccount to save the family business.

When the elevator dinged and the door slid open, his exhaustion nearly immobilized him, but he managed to drag himself and his bags across the red thick-piled carpet to the empty reservations counter. Just his luck that everyone was taking a break. He looked for a bell to ring, but he guessed the hotel was a little too classy for ringers. Live flower arrangements the size of a person graced the enormous mahogany counter shiny enough to reflect his image—in his opinion, just another overdone element of the posh resort whose decorating philosophy seemed to be "Sizedoesmatter."

He wondered briefly how much green the bride and groom were dropping for the wedding. Between the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony and the reception, all of which were supposed to take place at the resort, he suspected his buddy would have to perform an extra face-lift or two to foot the bill. Derek scoffed, shaking his head. Marriage—bah. He gave his pal and the Murphy woman six months, tops.

"Hello?" he called, trying to tamp down his impatience. He was not above stretching out behind the counter to sleep if he had to.

A door opened on the other side of the elevators, and his mood plunged when the bride herself emerged from the stairwell, pale and limping, hair everywhere, coat flapping.

"Oh, brother," he muttered. The last thing he needed was to spend one more minute with the leggy siren.

Stepping up next to him, she said, "Derek, I insist you take the room."

One look into her blue eyes gave him a glimpse of Steve's future—the woman would be a handful, even for Steve. He might have felt sorry for his pal, but, he reasoned perversely, the man who had led such a charmed life to date probably deserved a little grief. "Janine, go back upstairs."

She frowned and planted her hands on her hips. "I thought people from the country were supposed to be polite."

His ire climbed, then he drawled, "I get testy when I run out of hayseed to chaw on."

Her eyebrows came together and she crossed her arms, sending a waft of her citrusy perfume to tickle his nose. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He did not need this, this, this... aggravation, not when his body hummed of fatigue, stress and lingering lust. Derek felt his patience snap like a dry twig. He leaned forward and spoke quietly through clenched teeth. "It means I left my firm in the middle of a very important project to fly here and stand in for my runaway brother in a ceremony I don't even believe in, only to catch some kind of plague and have my reservation canceled and have my sleep interrupted by a stranger crawling into my bed!"

She blinked. "Do you have blood pressure problems?"

Heat suffused his face, and he felt precariously close to blowing a gasket. She and Steve deserved each other, and they'dnever miss him. So after one calming breath, he saluted her. "I'm going home. Please give Steve my regrets." He turned, then added over his shoulder, "And my condolences."

He picked up his suitcase, then headed toward the main lobby, not a bit surprised to hear her trotting two steps behind him. "Wait, you can't go!"

"Watch me," he growled.

"I'm sorry—you can have the room."

Derek lengthened his stride.

"After all, you made the trip down here..."

As he approached the lobby area, a buzz of voices rose above the saxophone Muzak, reminding him of bees. But then again, he did have honey on the brain. Good grief, he needed sleep.

"And you're not feeling well," she rattled on."Blah, blah, blah..."

The buzz increased as he rounded the corner. He stopped abruptly at the sight before him, and she slammed into him from behind.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she gasped. "I didn't realize—"

"Shhh!" He pulled her by the arm to stand alongside him, too distracted by the scene to worry about her tender feelings.

---