Coming up for air, I look around myself and think about the suite.
The guy is comping me a 3 bedroom, penthouse suite.
He didn't even push me for more personal information. He just didn't want me to freeze to death in his parking lot.
Grant didn't have to give me a suite though. He could have let me have a single-- downstairs, on the interior of the lodge...next to the vending machines. You know, the rooms no one really wants. I'd have been just as happy with that.
This is-- I look into the bedroom where I can see the hot tub, part of the fireplace, and most of the glass doors that lead out to the balcony-- excessive.
Wiggling my toes against the jets in the tub that are recirculating heated water I giggle.
When I told him I need a sugar daddy, I was being sarcastic, but I guess I can handle taking a dip in the sugar bowl for a few days if it means holing up in a hotel room like this.
Closing my eyes, I let the churning water rock my exhausted body and enjoy the chance to rest on the edge of sleep without having to stay on the alert for any reason I might need to bug out again.
It's a nice feeling and I try to think back on the last time I felt safe.
The answer surprises me; just an hour or so ago, standing next to Grant in the elevator.
That was the last time I felt safe.
And the first time since I packed up and left my apartment in the middle of the night.
When I finally drain the tub and burrow into the bed, I'm already half asleep.
And thinking that it sure would be nice if I could stay here for awhile...and how the room isn't the only thing I like about the place.
Grant
As I knock on the main door of the suite, it occurs to me that we need to outfit the luxury units with doorbells. It would certainly make it easier for anyone in the master bedroom to hear that they have company.
Although, most guests aren't expecting company outside of room service or house-keeping.
With another purposeful set of knocks against the heavy wood door, I realize that Cassidy probably isn't expecting company any more than any of my usual guests would be.
It's only a little after 8 AM. She's probably still sleeping.
I'm tempted to use my key and just leave the things I brought up in the kitchen without disturbing her.
I can't imagine how good that California king size bed must feel after she's been camping in the back of her car.
Of course I'm not actually going to intrude on her privacy.
Even if the room is being comped under less than ordinary circumstances, it's wrong of me to barge in uninvited.
As I complete one more set of knocks against the door, I wonder how long she's been staying in the car. And why.
She was reluctant to give me her real name last night and, for all I know, she didn't. Then she was worried about being traced to the hotel...by law enforcement, no less.
Part of my brain tells me that's a red flag that I shouldn't take lightly. I should call Pat and have him run her plates. If she's running from the law, I should at least find out what for, and I'm pretty sure I can trust Pat not to ask too many questions and let me sort out whether I should turn her in or not.
Another part of me says there's more to her story. That I don't have enough information yet to draw any conclusions.
I believe in trusting my gut.
That's why I'm knocking on her door at 8:15 in the morning with an armful of groceries. I was hoping to make breakfast for her and maybe get to know her better.
Just when I'm setting the canvas bag of things I was able to pick out from the hotel restaurant's walk-in fridge to head back downstairs, the door opens a fraction of an inch.
"Grant?"
Her voice is groggy, thick and throaty from sleep still, and she sounds less surprised than wary.
"Morning," I say, brightly, picking the bag back up and holding it up for her to see through the narrow space of the door that still has the security lock fastened. "I brought a few things."
Her face studies the bag as if she's unsure of what it might contain. Her eyes flicker to mine and then immediately fall away again.
I think she blushes slightly, but the light is dim in the hallway. I might be imagining it.
"Umm," her lips purse together in an expression that suggests she's not sure if she should let me in or not.
"I'm sorry." I scramble to start over, trying to gain her confidence.
That's when it hits me. I want to hear her story, all right, but less because of the potential problems it could cause for the resort than because I want to know everything about her.
"You were still asleep," I say too fast, "I should have let you sleep."
Suddenly I feel foolish.
Now I might be the one blushing.
Hoping that if I am, she can't tell with me standing in the hallway, I make a pretty awkward motion with the grocery bag toward the inch-wide gap between the door and the doorway.
"I just thought you might like some food for the kitchen." I rush my words, hoping to make my escape before I do something stupid. "I was hoping you'd let me make you breakfast."
Now I really feel ridiculous.
I can't remember the last time I lost my cool around a girl.
Probably Cynthia Livingston, when we were 12.
"I'll just leave these for you and let you get back to sleep." It feels good to hear my usual confident tone coming out of my mouth again, "If you need me for anything, you can call the front desk and have them page me."
She smiles behind the door. It's slow, like smiling isn't something she's used to doing and she might be testing it out.
The suite door closes and I think she's headed back to bed, but then I hear the sound of the lock being slid open and the door opens fully.
Her eyes dart quickly up and down the hallway before she moves to one side to make room for me to pass by her.
"It's OK," she tells me in a soft voice, "I got to sleep in."
She closes the door and locks all the security locks once I'm over the threshold and on my way to the suite's full kitchen.
"Sleep in? What time do you normally wake up?" I'm genuinely curious.
"Well," the smile is still haunting her face as she looks toward the wall of floor to ceiling glass windows and sliding doors that look out over the landscape. "Lately I've been awake before sunrise," she tells me in a voice that says she's not sure what to make of the scene outside the window this morning.
Normally, the windows of this suite would show the morning sun on the distant badlands topography that makes this part of the state famous.
This morning, however, there's not much but gray and white outside.
I begin unpacking the bag of goods and arranging things in preparation to start on breakfast.
She's taken a shower, washed and dried her hair, gotten a good night's sleep from the looks of it.
Still standing near the door, she's bathed in the pale pinkish gray light of the morning sun trying to fight its way through the storm rolling in outside.
She's wearing nothing but a t-shirt that ends so far up her thighs that its hard not to stare. With the sun on the other side of her, it's impossible not to notice that the t-shirt is the only thing she's wearing.
Her hair is a mess of dark tendrils falling around her shoulders in sleep-tangled disarray.
Frankly, she's stunning.
"Hope you eat bacon." I smile as I hold up the thick cut bacon I stole from the restaurant before they opened this morning and trying to pretend I don't hear the way my voice squawks like I just hit puberty.
Her smile lights her eyes before revealing the dimples in her cheeks and I feel my balls tingle with the beginnings of another embarrassing symptom from adolescence-- the ill-timed hard-on.
Cassidy nods.
"Ohmygodbacon," she says almost reverently, "I would love bacon."
Suddenly she remembers she's standing in front of me in nothing but almost nothing.
This time I can tell she's definitely blushing.
"Let me find some pants," she says with a laugh that's a little self-conscious but not exactly shy.
My gut tells me she ended up here for a reason and I usually trust my gut.
I just have to make sure it's my gut I'm listening to and not my cock.
Cassidy
Actually, I was up before dawn this morning too.
Even after the bath and despite the warm room and the comfortable bed, I slept light and somewhat restlessly.
It was nice to watch the sunrise through the big windows though. It's a totally different view from the 12th floor suite than through the rear window of the car.
I don't know why I didn't want to tell Grant that I didn't sleep well.
Pulling every stitch of clothing I own out of my duffle bag in search of pants and a bra, I think it over.
Maybe because I feel like I owe it to him to get a good night's rest since he's basically giving me a suite that goes for $750 a night-- that's the winter rate. It almost doubles during the busy season.
Maybe it's because I feel guilty for not sleeping like a baby in a $750 a night hotel suite.
Maybe it's because I've gotten used to not offering any information about myself to anybody over the last few weeks and I haven't decided if Grant is the exception to that rule or not yet.
Settling on a pair of leggings, I opt to forego the bra. I mean-- I scrutinize the mirror-- I could use a bra. But it seems like putting one on would be trying too hard? Am I getting dressed? Or am I just getting decent?
Dammit, I expected him to show up knocking on the door at some point today, I just didn't expect it to be so early. And I sure as hell didn't expect him to bring up a month's worth of food and offer to cook me breakfast.
Throwing my hair into a quick pony tail, I decide to leave the bra for later. It's perfectly acceptable for a girl to still be in her pajamas if you're making her breakfast in her own kitchen.
Not that it's actually my kitchen, of course.
And it's perfectly acceptable for a bra to not be part of a girl's pajama set.
Why am I so nervous?
Before I head back out to the kitchen I also brush my teeth.
Looking at the bra lying on the floor next to the bed among all the other clothes I decided against, I stop and consider reconsidering.
Is Grant going to notice if I'm not wearing a bra?
Is he going to care?
Do I want him to care?
Shaking my head as if I need to make the gesture just so my internal monologue will take me seriously, I decide that it doesn't matter either way.
Grant's not interested in my boobs-- with or without a bra-- I'm pretty sure. I'm pretty sure he's just comping the room so he won't get sued if I die in the car on his property.
Besides, he's a little older than I am. He probably doesn't see me as a daughter, but I'm definitely little sister material. Maybe he's just one of those guys that likes to take care of people. He does own a hotel, after all.
That does the trick. I seem to have convinced myself-- fuck the bra. He's not even going to notice. Because he probably sees me as a little sister.
Trying not to admit that the thought hurts a little, I follow the scent of bacon and fresh coffee toward the kitchen.
Rounding the corner into the kitchen, I immediately rethink my previous position on the bra. As well as the stretchy leggings and the sloppy t-shirt I threw on to go answer the door. I also wish I had time for a shower and to blow dry my hair and maybe smudge a little makeup on.
Basically-- I wish I looked as good as Grant does.
He couldn't have gotten any more sleep than I did last night, yet here he is, looking as good as that bacon smells in a pair of jeans that fits his ass in a way that those suit slacks he was in last night did not.
"Morning," he chirps as he pours fresh coffee into the mug he has waiting, "there's sugar and creamer on the table."
He holds the mug out for me to take it. Which I do, slightly too quickly too, I think.
"Thanks," I mumble on my way toward the dining table to doctor my coffee.
He's wearing a blue button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up with his jeans. His forearms are thick and strong and make me think he probably does more than just walk around the hotel all day.
I wonder if he hikes, or bikes, or maybe chops the firewood for the resort himself with an ax?
Whatever he does, it makes me self conscious because now I'm staring at his arms, wondering if there are biceps and deltoids and lats to match under that casually fitted shirt.
After I add 2 of the flavored creamers that appear to have been brought up from the cafe downstairs to my coffee, I spend another few seconds deciding whether I should sit at the breakfast counter and enjoy the view, or if I should offer to help with breakfast.
"Is there anything I can help with?" I ask to be polite. I don't really know what the hell he's doing exactly though, so I'm not sure how much help I'd be.
"You can tell me about yourself," he says.
His voice is casual and good-natured, not at all prying or suspicious and that's probably how I fall for it.
"Where do you want me to start?" I'm pretty much talking to my coffee, with both hands wrapped around the ceramic mug for its warmth, but I speak loud enough that Grant can hear me over the sound of bacon sizzling.
He leaves the pan on the stove long enough to place a plate of crisp bacon on the counter near my coffee mug.
"I'd like to hear it all," he tells me, "but why don't you start with how you ended up in South Dakota in the winter living in your car?"
His voice is deep and smooth with a touch of gravel to it. Right now it's tender and patient and it's easy to imagine him laughing or helping a small child learn to bait a fishing hook.
It's just as easy to imagine the way his voice must boom with authority when he's angry.
Taking a sip of my coffee and picking up a piece of the bacon I pretend I'm not also thinking of how that voice would sound whispering filthy things in the dark.
"Mmm," I swear, I'm just appreciating the bacon and coffee. The appreciative noise that just came out of my throat has nothing to do with thoughts of Grant in the dark.
"I guess I took a wrong turn," I answer after a moment of thought.
"What?" His dark eyes are all sexy crow's feet and sparkling humor as he refills my coffee cup and begins mixing pancake batter, "Like you should have turned left at Albuquerque?"
My turn to smile.
It feels weird and I think it might be the first time I've smiled for real in awhile.
"Something like that, I guess," I confirm, waiting till I finish 2 more strips of bacon while I think about where to start the story.
Grant
Thank God for the apron, is my first thought when she joins me in the kitchen.
She still has on the t-shirt she answered the door in, a white Kansas City Chiefs t-shirt that's been through the wash enough times to crack the screen printing ink and render the material nearly transparent in several spots.
I wonder if the team tee is an indication of where she's from, or if it's merely a relic from a beloved father or brother-- or the proverbial One that Got Away.
That thought doesn't sit well with me and once again, I have to face the growing realization that my interest in Cassidy is more than mere ethical obligation or sheer curiosity.
The black spandex leggings that she put on might meet their task of rendering her "decent" but they leave little to the imagination.
And my imagination is already way ahead of me.
What keeps distracting me though, is her tits.
The way they're free under her shirt. The way they bounce subtly with every shoulder shrug and hair flip. The way they swing ever so slightly every time she reaches forward for another slice of bacon.
The apron I threw on to avoid getting splattered with bacon grease is doing double duty to hide a rather embarrassing erection.
>
"My folks live in Boca Raton," she tells me with another breast-shaking shrug, "I was on my way to go stay with them for a few days..." her voice trails off and a deep worry line creases her forehead, "but I had to turn around."
She finishes the sentence enigmatically and peers into her coffee cup.
"That's a hell of a detour," I point out, "how'd you end up in the black hills?"
From the look on her face, I can tell this story is going to be a long one.
"I didn't really have anywhere I could go," she says, frowning, "so I just kept going."
"Hmm," I mumble, not really meaning to make the sound aloud, "So why would you be worried about law enforcement finding you?"
Her perfect, gray eyes, widen in panic and her lips part in silent exclamation.
I steel myself for an outburst, or an accusation that I might have called her in for something, or maybe she's about to bolt for the door.
Instead, she points over my shoulder, "Fire!" She yells.
It takes me about half a second to register what she's telling me and when I turn around, I see the flames in the skillet that I left on the stove with the bacon grease in it.
I get the burner turned off quickly and, before I can think of the next step, Cassidy is in the kitchen with me, pouring salt into the skillet till the flames die.
"Salt?"
I had no idea salt would put out a grease fire.
"It was available," she says in a casual tone, "baking soda's easier to clean up but salt works too."
"Go sit back down, I'll take care of it."
Shooing her back to her perch, I move the skillet to a trivet on the counter so it can cool down before I scrub it clean.
"What are you doing?" she asks, still in the kitchen with me.
"You can't have just bacon and coffee for breakfast," I answer as I grab another skillet from the cupboard, "we have pancakes on the way still."
Cassidy laughs.
It's a cute little laugh that sounds free of worry and it suits her.
Knee Deep in Sugar (A Taste of Sugar Book 3) Page 4
