Elsie

In stunned silence I spin around to face the door, trying to comprehend what is happening. A man’s frame fills the doorway, half in and half out of the room. It seems that my appearance halted him in his tracks.

His looks halt me in my tracks.

He’s wearing jeans and a tight navy T-shirt that sculpts to his muscles. One arm is coated in tattoos that run all the way down to his wrist and over the back of his hand. His dark hair is short but tousled and his eyes are bright caramel. He’s surprisingly rugged and not at all a pretty boy.

But more than any of that, the thing that freezes me is the dimple. He’s half smiling, and the dimple begs me to reach out and touch it.

It also makes me realize who he is. Xander Whitman. Heir of the Whitman fortune, reality TV star and renowned society playboy.

Although why would Xander Whitman be at my hotel? I must be wrong. It must be someone else.

I look over to where Isabel and Becca were just standing but they’ve vanished. Presumably to the bathroom. It’s the only place they could’ve gone. How nice of them to leave me alone with the strange man, especially dressed the way I am. Cowards.

Shit, I totally forgot how I’m dressed.

I let out an embarrassing groan and try to cover myself with my hands. It’s futile. Spinning like the Tasmanian Devil, I pull the black satin accent blanket from the foot of the bed and wrap it around me.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“I’m the guy who just checked into this room.” His voice is light and rich, and he definitely sounds like Xander Whitman. Not that I watch Lunatics, his girlfriend Luna Grosvenor’s reality TV show, or anything.

He saunters into the room and lets the door shut behind him.

“This room is in use. You are in the wrong room,” I say, sounding like I have more authority than I look.

“Then why did my key open the door?” He grins as he speaks, and his dimple grows even more delectable. I can’t take my eyes off it.

“There’s obviously been some sort of mistake.”

“Can I ask a question?” he asks, propping his tattoo-covered hand against the wall. I drag my eyes from his dimple to his bright eyes. When our eyes connect my insides puddle.

I clear my throat, try to stand a little taller to look composed and say, “Sure.”

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asks playfully.

“It’s none of your business. Now please go back to the front desk to find your correct room.” My mind races, trying to figure out how and why he is in this hotel, this room, of all places in the world. Not just the fact that it has to be Xander Whitman, but how did Nathan screw up and give him this room? I specifically said I was going to be in room two-fifteen. I even wrote it down on a big piece of paper and left it right smack in the middle of the reception desk.

“I like this room, it has a great view.” He rakes his eyes down the length of my body, and a shiver runs over me at the intensity of his gaze. “And since my key for the door worked and I have no idea who you are or how you got in this room, I’d say I’m in the right place and it’s you who is in the wrong place.” He smiles broader, clearly toying with me.

Well, I’m not going to be toyed with, no matter who he is. Or how sexy he is.

“This is definitely my room,” I say with conviction.

“And why should I believe you?” he says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Because I told you you’re in the wrong room. Why don’t you understand that? Isn’t it obvious that when you enter a hotel room and someone else is standing in it that it isn’t your room?” I say, raising my eyebrows and angling my head.

He looks around at the desk and eyes the telephone. “I’m going to call the manager.”

“I am the manager.”

“This hotel gets better by the minute.”

“Let me call the front desk and let them know you’re on your way back down.”

“Hold on, first I would like to register a complaint with the manager. That’s you, right?” he says, unable to hide his smirk.

“Actually, I’m the assistant manager. But I’m more than happy to let the manager know that you will be registering a complaint.” God, I hope he doesn’t register a complaint, I really don’t want Cynthia to find out about this. Please don’t call my bluff.

“Can assistant managers deal with complaints?”

“Definitely. Some days it feels like that’s all I do.”

“Oh, do people who stay in this hotel have a lot to complain about?”

“They have tons to complain about, fortunately not much of it actually relates to the quality of our establishment.” People just like to bitch about stuff and I’m the lucky person who gets to hear it.

“Well, I’d like to complain about having to move rooms.”

“You know what, since you’re so irrationally attached to the room that you have been in for all of five seconds, you can have it. I will move rooms.”

“Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“In the interest of keeping my guest happy.”

“Does this mean you’re going to leave me here alone?” He steps forward and the distance between us dissolves. I can feel the heat coming off his skin. He looks at me and my eyes flit between his eyes and his dimple.

“That would be the plan.” As much as I’d like to stay here and hang out with him, I obviously can’t.

“By the way, I’m Paul. Nice to meet you,” he says, raising his hand.

My mind races over our entire exchange and my brow furrows when I realize what he said to me. His name is Paul. Does that mean he isn’t Xander Whitman?

How can he not be Xander Whitman? Unless I’m completely out to lunch. Although I know some celebrities check into hotels under fake names. But that still leaves the biggest question of all – why would Xander Whitman be checking into a hotel at the edge of the highway in Trenton, New Jersey?

My eyes focus on the tattoo-covered hand for a moment before I slot my own hand into it. His large hand envelops mine and he gently squeezes it, filling me with warmth. I squeeze his hand back and smile up at him. There’s something natural about his touch, something that I don’t want to let go of. At least not yet. He doesn’t seem in a hurry to let go of me either and we stand, hand in hand.

“Nice to meet you, Paul, I’m Elsie Cushing, Assistant Manager here at the Good Rest Inn,” I say, examining him in more detail.

“Fabulous, Elsie Cushing. I’m Paul Newman.”

“Paul Newman?” I say and laugh. I can’t help myself and keep chuckling at the absurdity of the entire situation.

“You got a problem with that?”

“Nope. I love salad, and a good salad needs a good salad dressing.”

“I’m not so good with the salads but I do make a nice creamy dressing.”

“Shame your eyes aren’t blue like the actor Paul Newman.”

“They still wouldn’t be as nice as your green ones.” His eyes bore into mine and it’s impossible for me to look away. I stand here, feeling as though he’s searching my very being. The feeling becomes too intense and at last I pull my hand from his and drop it to my side.