Page 6 of The Vacation Mix-Up
Raising my hand, palm out, because she looks about ready to either barrel me over or take a dive off the balcony just to get away, I lift my lanyard from my chest and show her my own card. “Mine says the same. Room 10143, see?”
“What?” Her brows pull together, her posture losing its I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass rigidness just slightly before she huffs, tugs my card closer, and nearly severs my neck from my body as she inspects the details.
I breathe in her perfume for the second time today, a mixtureof flowers and coconut. She smells amazing—unlike the stench of Upper Bay.
“Wait a minute,” she says, letting out a relieved sigh, her hand clutching her chest as her eyes meet mine. “They’ve printed my card twice and given one to you. They both say Riley Wilson.”
Our heads are mere inches apart, and although the lanyard is practically cutting into my nape, I can’t help the grin that breaks across my face. She’s cute, and a little clueless.
“I don’t think that’s what they did,” I explain.
“Yes, it is. Look.” She flips the card and shows me what I already know. “Yours says Riley Wilson too.”
“That’s because IamRiley Wilson.”
“What?”
“Yeah.” I step back and run my hand through my hair. “This explains the weird Jane Doe comment in the terminal.”
“Oh.” She cups her cheeks, her stormy eyes wide. “Your last name is Wilson too?”
“Yep.”
“That’s crazy.”
It’s not; I bet there are more Riley Wilsons in the world other than us.
She bites her lip. “What does this mean, then?”
“It means we need to head to Guest Services and sort this out.”
“Yes!” She stabs both of her pointer fingers at me and then delicately collects her bag off the bed. “Let’s do that.”
“After you.” I gesture toward the door, allowing her to go ahead because I’m a gentleman, then both of us stride along the narrow corridor—my eyes glued to her incredible ass.
“I’m sorry for screaming at you,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “You scared me, is all.”
I snap my eyes to a respectable height. “No apology necessary. I’m surprised I didn’t scream too.”
She laughs and stops at the elevators, and my insides cringe. Ihatethese oxygen-lacking death boxes with every fiber of my being.
“So, where are you from?” she asks after pushing the button.
“Buxtonville.”
“Nice! I’ve been through there once. It’s lovely.”
“It is,” I agree. “How ’bout you?”
“Manhattan.”
Fighting my urge to scoff, I don’t offer the same compliment, because where she lives isn’t lovely. Manhattan is a concrete jungle, and I prefer my jungles to have trees.
“You don’t like the city?” she probes when I don’t answer.
“Not particularly.” I eye the stairs, tempted to take them, but I’ll look like a weirdo if I abandon her now. So I lean against the wall and wait, praying the elevators are out of service. “I like peace and quiet,” I explain. “More oxygen, less people.”
The elevator dings and opens, and my gut churns.
