Page 14 of Finding Out

I shoved the balled-up note into one pocket and dug in the other for my wallet, where I’d stashed the key card to the room.

But my pocket was empty. Shit.

My wallet was on my dresser.

My phone too.

This was the kind of shit I never let happen. I kept tight control over every aspect of my life to avoid this kind of scenario.

And now I was barefoot in the hall and locked out of my fucking room.

I hit the button for the elevator, and when the doors didn’t immediately open, I glared at them. I gave it thirty seconds before I hit the button several times in rapid succession.

The stupid elevator was slow as hell.

Finally the light above it lit, and with a ding, the doors slippedopen. Inside, I hit the lobby button, followed immediately by the one labeledclose door. All I could do now was head to the front desk and hope like hell they’d let me back in.

The problem? I didn’t have my ID. Even if I did, it still wouldn’t do me any good. Not when the fucking room was in the auction house’s name.

By the time I got down to the lobby, I was steaming.

“Excuse me, sir,” a man called. “We ask that our guests wear shoes when leaving their rooms.”

Of course they did. What kind of a jackass walked around barefoot in the lobby of New York’s most prestigious hotel? Apparently, my kind of jackass.

I ignored him, heading straight to the desk.

The young concierge’s eyes widened as he took me in from my head down to my bare feet.

“I’m locked out of my room.” I gritted out the words before he, too, could give me shit about my lack of proper footwear.

Swallowing audibly, he scanned my face, and recognition tingled in his expression. Twenty years ago, everyone recognized me. Between my popularity as the starting pitcher for Boston and many endorsement deals, I couldn’t walk down the street without being stopped every twenty feet for an autograph and even sometimes a photo. These days, though, I could move through life undetected most of the time. Die-hard baseball fans would still stop me, and now that everyone had a cell phone equipped with a camera, requests for pictures had become more common. Now, the last thing I wanted was to commemorate this moment with photographic proof.

Remember the time the forbidden woman you were obsessed with was on a date with another guy and you lost it and locked yourself out of your room?Yeah, I’d much rather forget this.

But the young man didn’t remark about my shoes or my identity. “Room number?”

“It’s 2401,” I gritted out, my hands balled into fists at my sides.

He looked from the screen to my face, his lips pressed into a tight line. “Is Ms. Jacobs in the room?”

Seriously? Did he think I’d be standing here if she was?

“She’s next door.” I turned toward the windows, where the snow swirled, turning the dark night into more of a gray haze. No way could I go out there like this.

He peeked over the counter and pointedly looked at my feet, a brow arched in judgment.

“I’m going to have to call her.”

That was fucking great.

“Chase lovesit as much as I did. Evie, though, isn’t a fan of the long tournaments.” He chuckled. “Especially with the little ones. But I think we’re in the wrestling world for the long haul.”

“As long as Chase likes it.” I toyed with a French fry on my plate, but rather than pop it into my mouth, I dropped it again.

My phone buzzed on the bar top. Another text from my overbearing father, I was sure. I’d lived on my own for ten years, but once he’d discovered it was snowing here, he suddenly acted as if I’d forgotten all survival skills. I wasn’t even responding anymore. I’d told him I was fine and that I’d rescheduled my flight. He needed to let go. He and my mother meant well, but they needed to let their adult children be adults.

Was this normal? Did parents just never stop worrying about their kids?

---