“Hi. Bella Keating checking in.”
The woman’s nails clacked against her keyboard. “Oh, yes, Ms. Keating. We have your reservation right here, three nights in the Presidential Suite.”
“The Presidential Suite? I’m assuming that’s a fancy room.”
She smiled. “It’s our best room. Fourteen-hundred square feet with a view of the city and a beautiful grand piano.”
A grand piano? What the heck did I need that for? “Umm…are there any other rooms available?”
“Most of the hotel is sold out because of the team staying, but I can check. What type of room would you prefer?”
“One with a bed, and maybe a TV.”
The woman looked like she wasn’t sure if I was kidding or not. “You mean a regular room?”
I nodded. “That would be perfect.”
“Sure. Would you excuse me a moment?” The clerk disappeared and came back with a guy in a suit. His name tag said Derrick Knowles, Manager.
Great. They brought out the big guns.
“Hi, Ms. Keating. My associate tells me you’d like to switch rooms.”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m sure the Presidential Suite is beautiful, but I don’t need all that space.”
“I’m happy to lower the price, since this is your first time at our hotel. Maybe that would allow you to experience what we have to offer?”
I shook my head. “I appreciate that, but it’s really not about price. I just hate to be wasteful.”
The manager smiled, but still didn’t look convinced. “Of course. Whatever you wish.”
Eventually, I checked into room 709. It was a standard room, but had a beautiful view of the city. Denver was two hours behind New York, so by the time I settled in and got changed and washed my face, it was almost eleven thirty at home, though the time on the clock read only nine thirty. I’d just flicked off the light and was looking forward to getting into bed when I heard a faint knock. I thought someone had knocked on a nearby door, not mine, until it happened a second time. At the door, I pushed up on my tippy toes to look through the peephole. None other than Christian Knox stood on the other side.
I opened the door and held onto it. “Are you lost?”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Nope. Just wanted to say goodnight, neighbor.”
“Neighbor?”
He motioned toward the door to the left and grinned. “I’m right next door, room seven eleven.”
I squinted. “You happen to be next door?”
“I’d like to say it was the world colluding for us to be near each other. But I bribed a bellman with two tickets to the game to get your room number, then switched my room with a lineman.”
I chuckled. “At least you’re honest.”
“Just wanted to let you know I was nearby in case you need anything.”
I shook my head, but was physically incapable of wiping the smile from my face. “I think I’ll be fine. But thank you for the offer.”
“No problem. Sweet dreams, boss lady.” He winked. “I know I’ll be having them.”
Two hours later, I was frustratingly wide awake. I liked my sleep, and on the rare occasions when it failed to come to me, I got angry. Turning over as if I was giving my back to a man who’d pissed me off, I ripped the covers down. A minute later, I flipped over onto my back for the tenth time, blew out an annoyed breath, and turned my head to see the time on the combination iPhone charger and clock: 11:58. Ugh. And that was Denver time. Back home, it was two in the morning, yet I was wide awake like it was AM and not PM.
I wanted to pretend it was a random case of insomnia—maybe the nap on the plane had messed with my sleep schedule—but the only time I had trouble conking out was when I was frustrated by a problem I couldn’t solve. Normally that meant there was a bug in my code, or an algorithm had produced wonky results. But today the frustration was my inability to stop thinking about the man on the other side of the wall. It was as if my body was hyper-aware of how close he was.
When I couldn’t sleep like this, I had two choices. One, take matters into my own hands for a quick dopamine surge. Or two, read. Reading late at night always knocked me out since my eye muscles were usually tired from staring at a computer all day. The constant movement back and forth was better than counting sheep. And that was exactly what I was going to do tonight, since I refused to get myself off to thoughts of my team’s quarterback. So I climbed out of bed for the book I’d tucked into my bag before I left home. Though I’d forgotten the book I brought was one of my father’s planners. I debated putting it back, but since I really needed some sleep, I climbed into bed with it and took a deep breath before opening to a random page—May 14th—and beginning to read the handwritten notes jotted next to the time: