Later that night, as the wedding party fanned out to our rooms, Emerson set a hand on my arm then showed me the pic of us from the ride. We looked joyful. “Thank you for going with me. You’re my best friend. Well, best friend who’s not my sister.”
"I know, Em,” I said. “I know.”
She frowned. “Shit, sorry. I don’t mean to qualify it.”
But I got it completely. “I don’t feel second best. You can’t replace a twin.”
She smiled sadly. She knew what was coming sooner rather than later with her sister. “That’s why this means the world to me—like you do.”
I understood her one hundred percent. Our friendship mattered more than a kiss. We couldn’t do that again.
Made sense, really. I was a mess from Inés, and she’d been fucked over by guys she’d dated. Plus, her focus was on her sister, and I didn’t want to lose a friend either.
It was just a roller-coaster-fueled kiss, and it wouldn’t happen again.
So, here we are in the same city. We’re still best friends, but we’re also a helluva lot more. Best friends and business partners. Double whammy.
But, hey, if we avoid roller coasters, it won’t be a problem. The Extravagant doesn’t have one, so we’ll be fine. Just fine.
We check into the hotel without any fuss, Emerson handing over a credit card for incidentals as we gawk at the jewel-themed opulence in the lobby. When the clerk gives us two key cards, I’m poised to walk away.
Emerson spins back to look at the clerk. “Oops. Meant to ask. Are there two queens? A king?”
The woman at the desk glances down at the monitor then flashes a grin. “A king and a large pull-out sofa. Will that work for you?
“Perfect,” she says.
And it is perfect. There’s room for two in this hotel suite.
We head to the elevators. “Inquiring minds want to know—do you want to go to The Parrot Club?” she asks.
It takes me a few seconds to register her meaning—the comedy club with the talking birds. But I shake my head. “Nah, let’s just edit the episode and hit the hay.”
She doesn’t answer right away. She takes a few seconds. “Excellent plan.”
We step into the elevator and head upstairs. The ride lasts forever. I study the posters, reading one about the room amenities, advertising them as fully equipped.
Equipped for what?
But I don’t ask because another question blasts across all my gray matter: Is she thinking of roller coaster kisses?
On the twelfth floor, we walk together into a luxury hotel room, and it feels like we’re at the first drop on an amusement park ride.
7
Bathrobes Will Save Me
Emerson
* * *
This is not the Teddy Bear Inn.
This room is an advertisement for a Vegas getaway weekend. It’s the setting for City of Sin fantasies.
Just look at the dreamy blue lights glowing along the floorboards. Just listen to the soft, sultry music piping into the sumptuous suite.
And check that out—the decadent view as lights from The Invitation across the street flash in the floor-to-ceiling window of this suite. They blink RSVP tonight.
The plush sapphire-colored carpet hugs my shoes and reminds me to remove those dirty little fuckers.
I kick off my ankle boots as the cool of the air conditioning wraps around us. “Are you sure we’re allowed to stay here?” I joke. “Or will they realize we don’t belong and toss out all the riffraff?”
Nolan brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. If you don’t tell anyone we don’t belong, I won’t either.”
“It’s a deal,” I say as Nolan toes off his shoes too, then sets down his bag. I put mine on the floor, taking a moment to drink in the rest of the suite.
A cushy purple couch commands center stage in the living room area, along with a glass table and a sleek bar with an ice bucket behind it.
And there’s probably a bed around the corner. I mean, duh. All hotel rooms have beds.
Still, my palms sweat at the thought.
Which is silly.
Nolan has crashed many a time at my place and slept on my couch after late-night planning sessions.
Since this hotel suite has a sofa, we’re not going to share a bed, so why does the prospect of setting my eyes on a regular old hotel mattress unleash a flurry of tingles down my spine?
I can handle a bed.
No big deal.
I rub my palms on my jeans, trying to erase the rush of anxiety as I pad past the couch, around the corner, and—
Holy mother of sex beds.
Does anyone ever sleep in this bed? It’s like the hotelier said to the interior designer: give me a bed for banging.
And the designer said: at your sexy service.
The cover is red.
The pillows are white.
The headboard is a silvery, padded thingie, perfect for slamming your palms against when you’re riding a hot guy’s face.