Issue 7, Febraury 2018: Featuring Jayne Ann Krentz: Heart's Kiss, #7

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  As if he can read my thoughts, he opens his eyes.

  “Good morning,” I say and shift, trying to slide out of the bed. Once again his arms trap me back to his side. He kisses my neck and nestles in. I laugh and swat at him. “Time to get up, sleepyhead.”

  He groans in protest and refuses to release his grip on me. Finally, I worm my way out of his arms and go to the bathroom. When I come out, he’s sprawled out across the entire bed grinning at me.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “You look awfully pleased with yourself.” I sit down beside him and he pulls me to him. “What if I am?”

  He continues looking at me significantly.

  “What?”

  “I’m waiting for you to say it.”

  “Say what?”

  He just waggles his eyebrows in response. I rack my brain to figure out what he means, before a lightbulb clicks. “Best I’ve ever had?”

  “Ahh!” he says, falling back on to the bed. “I knew it.”

  I turn to fully face him, growing serious. “Yeah, you are.”

  He sobers as well and reaches out to grab my hands. “I know you have your rules and everything but—”

  I shake my head, pulling out of his grasp. “It was perfect. The perfect night. Now that the sun’s up, I don’t want to ruin it. Isn’t it enough to be able to look back and have this one unspoiled thing to take with you? I guarantee if we try for more it will blow up in our faces.”

  I think he’ll protest, try to make his case. I steel myself against his arguments, hoping he can just understand where I’m coming from. To my surprise, he nods and gets up. Puts his clothes back on. For a moment, I regret the covering of that gorgeous body.

  He stands, fully dressed, looking at me through the mirror. I want to look away, but I can’t. I owe him at least this much—to see him. His intensity is set to full blast, but his face is unreadable. He picks up a pen and scribbles on the hotel stationery, then seals it in the envelope.

  “This is me.” He holds up the envelope. “If you ever want to know who I am, want to get in contact, it’s in here. Your choice.”

  A sharp longing pierces me as I look at the paper held in his long fingers.

  “I need you to know that I do want more. I don’t believe you’re as much of a mess as you think you are. What I see is a beautiful, intelligent, strong woman who’s been through some shit, and come out the other side. Not everybody does.”

  He places the envelope in the side pocket of my suitcase, then turns back to me.

  “And for what it’s worth, your high school boyfriend was a dick. And your dad. You don’t have to believe anything either of them said. They weren’t right. If you’ve had bad relationships, if you’ve chosen the wrong guys, that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve someone better. You absolutely do. Don’t sell yourself short anymore.”

  He takes a step towards me, cupping my face in his hands before kissing me, hard and meaningfully, imprinting himself onto me. My eyes close involuntarily.

  “You can’t fix me,” I whisper.

  “I don’t think you’re broken.”

  I open my eyes when the door clicks shut.

  I am alone again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An ho"chapter-sub"ur later, my return flight is booked and I’m ready to leave for the airport. I’ve already called my father’s social worker—he’ll be given a military burial in one of the available veteran’s cemeteries. No way am I spending another dime on him.

  There was judgment in her voice when I talked to her, but she only knew a dying old man. Letting go of any further responsibility for him feels good, not cold or callous. If there could have been reconciliation or forgiveness I would have been open to it. But there wasn’t. I don’t forgive him. And I’m okay with that.

  A knock at the door startles me. My gaze lands on the envelope peeking out of my suitcase. I’d contemplated doing a dozen things with it: chucking it out the window, except the windows don’t open; burning it, but I don’t have any matches; flushing it down the toilet, but I don’t want to create a clog. And, of course, opening it. Some part of me desperately wants to open it, to stay and spend another night in his arms. Over and over, I shake off the feeling, repeating to myself why it’s better this way. I almost believe it.

  I pad to the door and open it to find the bartender from last night, the odd girl with the bright purple hair.

  Today she’s in a bellhop’s uniform, complete with pillbox hat. A nametag on her jacket reads, “Delilah.”

  “Good morning,” she says.

  “Aren’t you the bartender?”

  “Yeah, that didn’t work out so well. I think bellhopping is more my thing.”

  “But, I didn’t call for a bellhop.”

  “Oh, you didn’t?” She frowns. “So, you’re not checking out?” Hope lights her face, like for some reason she wants me to stay. Maybe the work of being a bellhop doesn’t appeal to her any more than bartending.

  “No, I am checking out. But I only have one bag, I can get it.”

  “Oh, no, I insist,” she says, barging into the room and over to the suitcase.

  “Everything all zipped up?” she asks, running her hands across the green and pink floral fabric of my hideous discount bag. Her fingers brush the corner of the envelope, pushing it deeper into the pocket and zipping it up. She swings it off the luggage stand and carries it into the hall.

  “I’ll go ahead and take this down for you. It’ll be waiting at the front desk.”

  And with that she’s gone.

  Standing alone in the room, I exhale, feeling like I just survived some kind of freak storm interrupting a quiet, sunny day. I do a final check of the room, stopping just short of sniffing the pillow he used.

  Then I sniff it anyway. Try to memorize his scent. Grab my purse and head out.

  For once, the lobby is teeming with activity. A family reunion, all wearing matching fluorescent t-shirts reading “The Hollisters—Building Our Legacy, Y’all,” is checking out. They all have southern accents, and I bob and weave through huge teased bouffants and cowboy hats to get to the front desk.

  “Sorry, sugah,” a large woman says as she rolls a gold-trimmed suitcase over my foot.

  The young man behind the front desk looks harried, but smiles warmly at me.

  “Hi, the bellhop just brought my bag down, I’m checking out of 409.”

  “409,” he repeats, clicking on the computer.

  “Are you all short staffed?”

  He grimaces. “A flu hit a bunch of the staff this week. Sorry if there was anything about your stay that was unsatisfactory.”

  “Oh no, my stay was delightful. I would definitely recommend the Montagne to anyone I know who could afford it.”

  The young man passes me my receipt and scans the bags behind the counter.

  “What does your bag look like again?”

  I look around. “You can’t miss it—bright green. Looks like flower vomit.”

  The man frowns. “Let me check the back,” he says and disappears behind a door marked STAFF.

  A few minutes later he reappears with an older man in tow.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, who did you say brought your bag down?”

  “The bellhop. She was young, Asian, bright purple dreadlocks.”

  Both of their faces remain blank and a sinking feeling hits me. “Not ringing any bells?”

  The manager looks at the desk clerk, then back at me. “No one by that description works on the staff of the Montagne.”

  “She was working the bar last night. She had an ID badge.”

  The manager kneads the bridge of his nose. “Jake, call the police, please.” To me he says, “I’m so sorry ma’am, it seems you’ve been the victim of a theft.”

  I need to be at the airport in an hour. I’ve already paid a fortune for the tickets and can’t afford a flight change fee. Fortunately, the cops come quickly. I give them my statement and a descript
ion of the woman. Then I’m headed back through the swamp of Hollisters to hail a cab.

  I hadn’t packed much for the trip. I wore the same skirt or slacks every day, dressing up in a vain attempt to present an air of respectability to my father. There were no valuables and the suitcase itself was no great loss, though it was new. The hotel promised to pay for the value of my belongings, but it won’t be much.

  I miss a step when it hits me that I had one priceless, irreplaceable item in that bag. I falter, trying to decide whether to go back to the front desk and ask them about all of their permanent residents. Will they tell me the identity of the gorgeous man with the sparkling, mischievous eyes?

  The doorman waves me forward, holding a cab at the curb. I look back, through the sea of people. There’s a man at the counter who could be him. Dark hair. Brown skin. Tall. I strain my neck to see.

  Someone on the street honks, and I shake my head. Maybe this is a sign. I’m not supposed to know him. Contact him. Want him. Isn’t this just what I wanted?

  I climb into the cab. The door shuts, sealing me in. I look back as we pull away.

  It’s for the best.

  It has to be.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  From across an immaculate desk, Delilah’s superv"chapter-sub"isor, Neenah, stares her down. Delilah taps a glittering nail on her thigh, looking anywhere but her boss’s iron gaze.

  “Explain this to me again,” Neenah says. “What am I looking at?”

  Delilah takes a deep breath, a habit gleaned from living around humans for so long. Breathing usually helps her fit in better.

  “He’s logging in to the database to search the guest registry. But he always stops himself. Tells himself that if she’d wanted to contact him she would have.”

  “And how many times a day does he do this?”

  Delilah sighs, another unnecessary action. “Several.”

  Neenah sets the tablet down gingerly, the live feed still playing. She straightens it into perfect alignment with the edge of the desk. “And how long has it been?”

  Delilah looks at her bare wrist and tilts her head, counting. “Approximately 2 months, 3 weeks and 4 days. Time works differently over there, you have to realize.”

  Neenah shakes her head, causing the ruby-red hair she’s chosen for her human body to briefly shift back into her natural smoke-like form. When meeting with her subordinates, she usually matches the form they hold, though staying human is tricky without a great deal of practice—especially when strong emotions come into play.

  For a second, she flickers into a murky haze, then comes back full force. “This is unacceptable. Why didn’t you predict that she’d leave without her bag?”

  Delilah picks at the polish on her nails and shrugs. “It was a miscalculation.”

  “And where is the suitcase in question?”

  “Tech support is on it. They’ll have it put back together really soon.”

  “How many dimensions did it end up in?”

  “Only a few hundred.”

  Neenah blinks. Too slowly to really pass for human, but she’s never spent any time in the human realm. Delilah wants to fidget in her seat, but stays still under the scrutiny.

  “Your first assignment is hanging by a thread, Delilah. Your future in the Guild is in jeopardy if you don’t fix this now.”

  “It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Most of our liaisons understand how trans-dimensional transportation works. And it didn’t happen to anyone—it happened to you.” Neenah stares her down. “Fix. This. Now!” Her voice reverberates through the office as she de-manifests into a plume of smoke.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The coffee shop is nearly empty after the lunch rush. I crack"chapter-sub" my back and sit up from my laptop; take a moment to calm the jitters that always happen after I press send. I’d tweaked my resume for the millionth time and it’s now on its way to yet another job prospect. I feel really good about this one. For starters, they have an office in San Francisco.

  Closing the many tabs I have open in my browser, I stop at the one I can never bring myself to get rid of. The Montagne’s website.

  It’s glossy and slick, just like the place itself. I’ve stared at the photo of the bar more times than I care to think about. I can picture just where he stood when he made me that first tea. Where I sat when he ran his fingertips across my face, moving my hair and emblazoning himself across my soul.

  After a week back home, I called the hotel and tried to find him. But just as I thought, they don’t give out personal information about their guests or permanent residents. It was a dead end, and short of hopping on a plane and sitting in the lobby until he appeared, I don’t have any other way to figure out who he is. Once I get a job and can pay down my credit card, I can go back.

  There’s no guarantee that he’ll be happy to see me or that he’ll even be there, but the hope spreads out before me like something I can grasp. The hope is new.

  I pack up my computer and wave goodbye to my favorite barista. Yes, I splurged on coffee today, and I don’t even feel bad about it. I just have this feeling that everything is turning around. It’s gorgeous out; I pause on the sidewalk just to feel the sun warm my face. There’s this idea that’s been forming inside me that things can be different. It’s grabbed hold of that pessimist inside me and put her in a strangle hold. I don’t know exactly where it came from, but sometimes it makes me giddy.

  I think it’s called happiness.

  I don’t really have any reason to be happy, but I am. Maybe it’s the hope.

  I make it only a block towards my apartment, when I hear someone calling my name. The familiar deep voice causes me to turn around slowly.

  “It is you.”

  He hasn’t changed a bit. Still cocky and self-assured, still just as handsome as I remember. Trevor stands before me, grinning widely.

  “Hi,” I say, a little in shock.

  His perfect teeth sparkle with an almost feral quality.

  “You’re back in town,” I say.

  “Yeah, I’m here visiting my mom. She just had knee surgery, so I’m helping out.” He lifts his pharmacy bag as proof.

  I smile. Perfect son. Almost perfect boyfriend. But not quite.

  The harsh light of day exposes bags under Trevor’s eyes. He wears a polo shirt and khakis, the blandest clothes known to man. I shade my eyes from the sun’s glare as I look up at him.

  “How’s your family? The wife? Kids?”

  He looks down, the smile faltering a bit. “We’re, um, we got separated a few months ago.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, really meaning it.

  He shrugs, looking off down the street. “Yeah, well, it happens.” He seems very blasé about the loss of his family. I mean, I wouldn’t expect him to be crying in the street, but still, some emotion would be nice. “You know, we should go out some time. Catch up.”

  I freeze, not sure what I’m hearing. Is he asking me out? Is this really happening?

  “Um, I haven’t really kept in touch with many people from high school, but a bunch of folks are still in town. Maybe we could get a group together one night,” I say. After years of longing, suddenly the thought of being alone with Trevor leaves me cold.

  “No, I mean you and me.” His hand snakes out to touch my arm before I can stop it. “You look really good. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  His palm is cool and dry. Sort of reptilian.

  “You and me?” I repeat, incredulous.

  “Yeah,” he shoots me with his biggest caliber grin. “We used to have fun together.”

  If by fun he means I used to let him stick his tongue down my throat and pry his hand out of my panties, then sure, I guess that was fun for him.

  “You’re right, I haven’t changed. I still have the same baggage I did back then. Don’t you remember, I had too many issues to deal with? You didn’t have time for it then. Why would you now?”

  His grin falls away. “D
id I say that?”

  I have to catch my mouth from falling open. “Yes, you did.”

  “Well, that was a long time ago.” His eyes run appreciatively down my body not once, but twice. They get stuck on my breasts with each lap. This morning, when I put on the sundress and strappy sandals, I felt good. That hope had wormed its way into my mind again and I wanted to look nice, just because. But his eyes on me make me want to find a sweater and cover up.

  Suddenly, I remember why I didn’t want to sleep with him in the first place. It hadn’t felt right. He hadn’t been right. All these years I thought I’d missed out on someone wonderful. A perfect guy with a perfect life.

  But Trevor isn’t a prince. He never was.

  I pick his hand off my arm and take a step back. “Sorry, I’m busy.” I turn and walk off, swaying with every step just so he’ll know what he’s missing.

  Everything that Danger told me suddenly clicks into place. I’d let Trevor’s words hold so much power over me all these years. I thought he was the pinnacle, that it couldn’t get any better than him. I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

  I round the corner to my apartment, still feeling on top of the world. Lost in thought, I notice someone standing outside the apartment doors, but don’t really look at them until I bump into a pink and green floral suitcase sitting on the stoop.

  “Ooh, I’m sorry. You know I had one just like—”

  My jaw drops as mischievous eyes crinkle, grinning at me. He’s in grey slacks and a black dress shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, the top two buttons undone. Sexier than ever, if that’s even possible.

  I swallow. We stand there for a few moments drinking in the sight of one another.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi.”

  “You brought my suitcase.”

  “The hotel apologizes profusely for losing it.”

  “The hotel? They make you work for room and board?”

  He shrugs. “It’s my hotel.”

  I blink. “Your hotel.”

  “I own it.”

  “Oh.” Of course he does.

  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and jingles his keys. I’ve never seen him nervous before.