Page 62 of Unhurried Hearts

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“And the winner is…”

The M.C. tears open a cream envelope right as I slip back into the ballroom. I tuck my clutch beneath my arm and cross both my fingers.

“...Isaac Lauri Restorations with the Amberly Road Project!”

“Yes!” I cry out.

Chris turns to the sound of my voice, a huge lopsided grin plastering his face when he sees me. I’d have been so pissed if Darren made me miss this.

I clap with gusto at the back of the ballroom, watching him weave through the tightly packed tables to accept an envelope, shake a couple of hands, and smile for thephotographer. I’ve known Isaac, Chris, and the other guys for over a year now and they’ve been utterly devoted to the projects they pick. They deserve this win. As he makes his way back to our table, I can’t help but notice, again, that he’s wearing the hell out of that suit. When he’s within earshot, he slips his arm around my waist.

“Let’s go.”

I glance around, on the stage another category is already being announced.

“Now?”

“Yes. We’ve been here for hours.”

Nobody notices us slip away. If they did, I don’t care. This has been a long day.

“You’re going to need to slow down,” I tell him, noting his long strides toward the lobby. “Shoes,” I explain.

“Want me to carry you?”

I laugh, knowing he’d probably do it if I asked.

“Do you have the valet ticket?” I yawn.

“Don’t need it.” He smiles, pulling me into his side as he takes a sharp turn to a bank of elevators.

“Chris?”

At this time of night, the elevator car arrives right away.

“You didn’t think I was going to drive home this late, did you?”

“I don’t have any clothes.”

That sounds so dumb, but the thought of putting this dress, lingerie set, and heels on in the morning makes me want to cry. My mascara is burning my eyes and I imagine trying to scrub it off with a fancy white hotel face cloth. While I’m busy worrying about toiletries and the fact that my underwear aren’t actually on my body, Chris steers me down the long hotel hallway, the plush carpeting absorbing the sounds of our shoes. The beep and whir of the electronic lock snaps me out of it and then Chris is standing in the wide doorway.

“Go on.”

I enter the room, slipping off my heels because I can’t bear to keep them on a second longer. Two end tables with warm glowing lamps flank a king bed with crisp white linens. The heavy drapery is open, only the sheers drawn shut, revealing the golf course below. Next to one pillow is a bundle of clothing with a bow on top.

“What the heck is this?”

“Open it.”

The fabric is soft and stretchy, and I clutch it to my chest.

“Are these pyjamas?!”

I could cry knowing I get to put these on soon.

“Hell, yes. And look.”

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