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“No, that’s all.” I thank her again before crossing back to the elevators. It will do no good to ask for her information. By law, hotels can’t give out that information.

Reaching my room, I run my keycard over the lock. I kick off my shoes in the doorway, fold my clothes on a chair as I pull them off, and slide back on my shorts. I climb back under the covers.

There’s nothing I can do about Brontë right now. She will have to wait until I return to my office and have more resources. I set the alarm on my phone and lay my glasses on the nightstand next to it. My eyes were too sore this morning to wrestle with contacts, so I fished my glasses out of what was definitely not water. Gin is my best guess. On the bright side, I’m not sure they’ve ever been cleaner.

* * *

“Damn, you still look like shit,” Peter says, dropping into the chair across from my desk.

“Always great to hear on a Monday morning,” I answer. I don’t disagree though. The late afternoon flight back left me exhausted, nauseous, and achy. I have never been more thankful for the company jet than I was Sunday afternoon. As bad as I still felt, flying crammed into a commercial flight would have been nightmarish.

As if on cue, Bernadette, our executive assistant, walks into my office. She places a handful of files on one side of my desk, a stack of messages on the other, and a glass of fizzing liquid in the middle. Executive assistant might be her title, but we all know she’s more than that.

I was allowed to hire Bernadette away from my father after graduate school when I returned to work at the family firm. She is every executive’s dream. I quickly came to rely on her vast knowledge of the real estate field, especially when I first started. Not only can she keep all of the projects straight and the filings updated, but also has the tendency to mother both Peter and me.

“Drink it,” she says. I dutifully pick up the glass and chug it down in one horrible gulp. “Now, water.” From seemingly thin air, she produces a bottle of water. She stares at me solemnly until half the bottle is gone before speaking again. Peter, at least, has the good sense to remain silent.

“These are the updated files on the projects in Las Vegas, Atlanta, and Des Moines,” she says, pointing to the files. Who knew Des Moines needed revitalization? But it’s turning into one of my favorite projects.

“Thank you, Bernadette.”

“Of course, Mr. Randolph.” No matter how many times I’ve asked her to call me Rand, she stubbornly refuses. “Also, Mr. Randolph asked that you join him for lunch.”

That is exactly why I kept trying to get her to call me Rand. Having two “Mr. Randolphs” in the building is confusing. It’s even worse when my grandfather decides to spend the day in his office. He’s retired now, but still likes to keep abreast of what’s happening.

“Thank you again, Bernadette.” She returns to her office, closing the door behind her.

I sink into my chair like a sack of potatoes. Peter starts laughing the moment the door clicks shut. “Shut up,” I grumble.

I’m not positive sodium bicarbonate does much for a hangover two days after the fact, but I wasn’t going to argue with her. Peter wouldn’t have either. How does a hangover even last this long? I really am a lightweight.

“So tell me everything. Every detail, leave nothing out,” Peter says, sitting forward. He has a grin on his face that I’m trying to ignore.

“I can’t remember the details. She walked up to me at the bar—”

“Wait, you didn’t wind up with a hooker, did you?”

I give him his best death stare. Not easy to do when your eyeballs still feel like they’re on fire.“ I believe the correct term is sex worker, and I think I know the difference. Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead.” Peter acts even more eager than before. He’s sitting up in the chair with his elbows resting on his knees.

“She said she was with a friend doing a photo shoot. I believed her because, well, she was stunning. Anyway, I must have drunk five or six old fashions. She matched me in martinis. We went up to the room where we continued with vodka, she kissed me, and that’s about all I remember. I do know I found my glasses in a glass of gin, there was an impressive bill for the minifridge, and I woke up naked.”

“No, not Mr. ‘What if there’s a fire?’”

“It could happen.” I mean, seriously. I’m not getting caught outside some hotel in the nude.

That probably wouldn’t bother Peter. He once talked the entire lacrosse team into streaking across campus. The only thing that kept him from getting kicked out was that none of us would say whose idea it was. It would have made a serious dent in the bottom line to kick the entire team out.

“I wish I had, at least, gotten her last name,” I add.

“Why?”

“She was… interesting. I don’t know. I think I’d like a chance to explain that I’m not that guy.”

“God forbid the almighty Henry Randolph the eighty-fifth be happy with just a tag and bag. No, he has to issue a lengthy apology for getting his knob polished. By a damn model too. Lucky bastard.”

“I’m the fifth.”

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