Page 79 of If Not for My Baby
Turns out there is no patron saint of sneakiness. When I turn, it’s Grayson standing behind me. It’s always Grayson.
“Damn,” he says, half grin making my stomach turn. “You’re all dressed up. Who for?”
“I just got home from a Broadway show,” I say. My mom always taught me rule number one of lying was stay as close to the truth as possible.
Grayson tips himself against the wall in a lean that I know he thinks is irresistible but only serves to make him appear lazy. “In for the night? My little party animal? No way.”
Why can’t I bring myself to sayI’m not your little anything? Molly would say it. Grayson would probably laugh, too. And then leave her alone.
“It appears so,” I respond instead, like a Girl Scout. Then I fake a yawn. “So tired.”
“Come out with us. The reporter that’s doing theRolling Stonearticle on me got the band a table at Spade.”
“I don’t know what that is.” My finger slams into the up button again. Where is the goddamn elevator? Alaska?
“It’s a club.” His floppy hair droops into his face and he pushes it aside. “I hear it’s pretty hard to get into. I don’t know, though, I didn’t have any issue.”
“Doesn’t sound that hard, then,” I say, because I just can’t help myself.
Grayson laughs like I’m flirting with him. “You crack me up. Please come out with us. You can’t waste this dress on your empty hotel room. You lookedible.”
My whole body revolts and I’m about to tell him to shove it, when the elevator dings. It’s like the bell on a boxing match that’s turning ugly. My shoulders slump in relief.
“Good night,” I mutter before slipping inside and pressingdoor closewith my now-seasoned trigger finger.
They’re rolling shut and I’m finally exhaling, when they’re stopped by a large hand.
My stomach seizes—
Until Tom slips inside.
“Hi,” I manage casually.
“Hey,” he says, as the gap closes. He nods at someone in the lobby. We don’t look at each other.
Finally the metal doors fuse and we are alone. Tom turns to me and the look on his face…I can think only of a lethal beast fighting to remain civilized. “Does he always talk to you like that?”
“Sometimes. I don’t know; he’s the worst.”
Tom’s eyes narrow under lowered brows. “Jen should know.”
“Please don’t bring it up to her. That would be mortifying. And Grayson would know it came from me, and I’d be exiled by the whole group.”
Tom’s phone vibrates in his pocket, but he ignores it. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“I’m asking you not to say anything, please.”
“Fine,” he concedes. The elevator chimes its arrival on the sixth floor. “If I were a different kind of lad, though, I’d say I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
Something about his tone makes my breath hitch. “What kind ofladwould that be?”
“One who doesn’t know you can take care of yourself just fine.”
His answer fills me with gooey warmth. I’m like a cookie in an oven—golden and proud. Tom’s suite beckons to us from the end of the hall. The wallpaper is a navy so dark it’s nearly black, and the modern sconces cast a muted glow. I feel like I’m in Persephone’s underworld speakeasy from this evening’s musical. Tom’s hand finds the small of my back, and I wonder if he’s leaning down slightly to make that possible.
He doesn’t say anything as he slides the key and lets me inside before him. His room has been freshly turned down—one of the many elements of hotel life I’ve become far too reliant on—and smells of floral room spray and the good kind of fabric softener.
“Can I offer you a drink?”
