Page 8 of Feast

“Why?”

She blinked. “Because I’m hungry.”

He wondered for a moment if she was being deliberately obtuse, then decided it didn’t matter. “I could eat,” he said and jerked his head at the check-in desk, where a clerk was gesturing her forward. “You’re up.”

She scurried up, dragging her roller bag, and he took a moment to appreciate the view of her in a hurry before heading to the next open clerk further down the desk.

Since his mother had checked him in already it didn’t take long and he gathered his key and headed for the elevators, one eye on 3B. She was still at the desk, wearing a cheerful smile that he was starting to think was her default expression, which was not a point in her favor. He didn’t mind cheerful people as a rule, but in his experience they often tried to make the people around them cheerful too, assuming anyone who wasn’t vomiting sunshine and shitting rainbows must be miserable, and that annoyed him.

So far she hadn’t seemed inclined to try to cheer him up, but people could be sneaky motherfuckers.

He waited while she waved goodbye to the clerk—actually fucking waved, like she was going off to war—and made her way to the bank of elevators.

“Did you get her number, so you can exchange recipes?” he asked, laying on sarcasm like mortar.

“I’m friendly,” she said with a sniff and reached past him to hit the button for the elevator. The doors slid smoothly open, and she stepped inside. “Deal with it.”

He grinned, enjoying himself, and followed her onto the empty elevator.

“Wow,” she said, blinking at him. “You actually smiled. Gas bubble?”

“When I have gas, you’ll know it,” he told her and punched the button for his floor.

“Something to look forward to.” She reached past him to hit the button for the floor below his. “Where do you want to eat?”

“Somewhere close,” he decided as the car smoothly ascended. “And open.”

“Jessica said there’s a 24-hour place just off the casino floor.”

“Who’s Jessica?”

“The clerk at check-in.”

He shook his head. “I should’ve known.”

“They’ve got fruit, sandwiches, stuff like that.” She glanced up from her phone. “Of course, we could just get room service, but I think we should save that for breakfast.”

He tried not to grin again. Dammit, he was beginning to like her. “Are we having breakfast together?”

“I haven’t decided yet. You?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” he echoed.

“Caffè Al Teatro it is, then,” she chirped and tucked her phone in her back pocket.

“Great,” he said, trying not to envy her phone. The elevator gave a discrete chime as the doors slid open on her floor. “Meet you there in thirty?”

“Make it twenty,” she called back over her shoulder as she marched down the hall, dragging her bag behind her. “I’m hungry.”

“Me too,” he murmured and watched her walk until the closing doors shut off the view.

When he gotto the cafe she was already in line, staring up at the menu board and tapping her foot to some internal beat. She’d taken her hair down so her hair lay across her shoulders in casually curly disarray, and she’d pulled a hoodie on over her t-shirt.

Her ass still looked spectacular.

She turned her head at his approach, a smile at the ready. “You’re late.”

“No, I’m not,” he countered, standing beside her so his arm brushed against hers. A faint scent wafted up from her skin and he realized she’d put on perfume. Testing them both, he leaned down so his nose was nearly touching her neck and took a good sniff.

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