Page 48 of The Muse
The hotel is beautiful. Well-appointed, sophisticated and with attention paid to every detail. All of which I can’t appreciate because I’m too busy hyperventilating about what I’ve just done. Have I walked out on my family or just Landon? And I don’t even know if Scott will ever speak to me again.
Thinking of him again, I take my phone out and text him for what feels like the millionth time.
Please talk to me. I won’t stop. You need to hear me out. x
And then the screen goes black as the battery dies.
Shit.
I dump it on the bed and search for my charger. With the whirlwind packing, I was sure I grabbed everything I needed, but as I empty my bag and sift through it again there's no magic white cable.
This just isn’t my day.
“Hello, do you keep phone chargers for guests?” I ask the lady on the end of the room service line.
“We don’t. But we’d be happy to source one for you? The concierge can take care of it and bring it up to the room.”
“Great. Thank you. I’ll be heading out shortly, so perhaps just leave it for me to collect at the front desk.”
“Certainly, Miss Castlewood.”
Who’s to say that Scott hasn’t messaged me back this time? And he’s just around the corner. I double-check I have the key to my room—my current luck would have me lose that, too—and head out.
I can’t call Scott or let him know I'm coming, and after last time and his grumpy neighbour, I’m a little less comfortable about breaking into his building and hammering on the door, but I’m out of options at the moment.
The air is cool for this time of year, but the evening is drawing in. I consider going back up for my jacket but decide that I’ll warm up with a walk. I cross the road and then follow the pavement for a few hundred yards before crossing back over towards Embankment. But the closer I get to Scott’s, the more anxious I grow. I check over my shoulder but only see a handful of people going about their business. Maybe it’s everything that’s happened over the last few days that has me feeling paranoid, but I can’t shake that prickly feeling that someone is following me.
I make a turn before reaching Scott’s building and walk around the back of it, my heart now pumping and the chill now truly gone. Every instinct in my body tells me to keep walking—to speed up. But I force my feet to stop and go to pull out my phone. Damn it. I rummage in my bag, knowing I won’t find it, but it gives me a few seconds to check who’s behind me again. My mind tries to remember if any of the people are familiar. Possibly the guy with the paper? I can’t be sure.
I try to calm my beating heart and wait for the man to pass me before setting back down the way I came and towards the front of Scott’s building. If the man is following me, there’s no way he’ll be able to follow me now.
Instead of waiting for a stealthy entry, I ring the buzzer. Perhaps if Scott doesn’t know it’s me this time, he’ll be more inclined to let me in the door. My finger jabs at the Foxton button, and then I wait. I’m rattled, my foot tapping and my hands clenched at my sides. Not just about if he’ll answer or not, but because of my paranoia as well.
My finger jabs at the buzzer again, and another time before I step back.
“Come on, Scott.”
Nothing.
Turning around, I lean against the wall and remember the time he first brought me back here. And that’s when I see him again. The guy with the paper is walking away from me this time, but it’s clear it’s the same man I saw. The drop of my stomach sends a wave of nausea through me, and I quickly turn back towards the wall, as if hiding might make the reality disappear. It’s a ten-minute walk back to the hotel. And it’s not like he doesn’t know where I’ve come from.
I follow after him, not allowing him the opportunity to peel off and stalk me this time. He takes a direct route back to the hotel, and just as we approach the entrance, he stops and turns to face me.
He’s younger than Scott, more like Landon’s age.
“Have a good evening, Miss Broderick.” He smiles as he lifts his arm, gesturing to the door. “Mr Broderick sends his regards.”
Chapter Nineteen
SCOTT
The morning after—or late afternoon considering the four a.m. roll in—looks just as bloody depressing as the day before did, but at least now I have a direction to travel in. Two, maybe three days of drinking, of moping and considering, for some reason with Shaun permanently attached to my side, and now I'm ready to do something useful.
I should have sent him away after he found me. Should have reverted to type and been the bastard I am, but I didn't for whatever reason. He's stayed here on my sofa, most of the time trying to get me to talk. It hasn't worked, but at least I'm sober now and tolerating this space around me again. I wasn't before. I wanted to be out of it permanently. Away from the painting. Away from thoughts of her and Broderick anything. Maybe Shaun’s reminded me of Paris, of good times rather than the reality of now for a while. It's helped clarify my thoughts.
Helped me make decisions.
Kicking his leg hanging from the sofa, I watch as he groans and rolls over to look at me. His eyes widen immediately. Yeah, it’s not pretty now. A few days’ worth of damage is now loud and clear on my face. What usually looks dishevelled and yet still attractive enough for women to drop their underwear, has now become a mess of bruised cheeks and a split lip.What day is it?
