Chapter 5: Room Service

The conference was a disaster.

Not the professional kind—my presentation on sustainable hotel management had gone fine, thank you very much. No, this was a personal disaster. The kind that involved walking in on your boyfriend of three years with his tongue down a cocktail waitress's throat in the hotel bar.

Ex-boyfriend, I corrected myself as I stabbed the elevator button with more force than necessary.

I'd left him there, mid-apology, and walked away without a word. What was there to say? The image was burned into my brain. His hands on her waist. Her giggle. The way he'd looked up at me with guilt written all over his face.

Three years. Gone in an instant.

The elevator doors slid open and I stepped inside, grateful it was empty. The last thing I needed was forced small talk with another conference attendee. I just wanted to get to my room, order an obscene amount of room service, and maybe cry into the overpriced hotel pillows.

The doors started to close.

"Hold the elevator!"

I almost didn't. My finger hovered over the "door close" button. But years of conditioning won out and I hit "door open" instead.

A man slipped through, slightly breathless, pulling a room service cart behind him.

"Thanks," he said, flashing me a quick smile. "Would've been my third trip up."

I nodded, stepping back to make room for the cart. That's when I actually looked at him.

He was... not what I expected from hotel staff. Tall—easily over six feet—with broad shoulders that filled out the white uniform shirt in a way that suggested he spent significant time in a gym. The fabric stretched tight across his powerful chest, the buttons straining just enough to hint at the hard muscle underneath.

His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing thick, tanned forearms roped with muscle and veins that made my mouth go dry. Dark hair, slightly messy like he'd been running his hands through it. Sharp jawline with just a hint of stubble that I suddenly wanted to feel scraping against my inner thighs.

And his eyes—God, those blue-green eyes were incredible, deep and piercing like the ocean, already making heat pool low in my belly.

He caught me staring and his smile widened slightly, slow and knowing.

I looked away fast, heat creeping up my neck and spreading down to my chest. Great. Caught ogling the room service guy while still reeling from my breakup. Real classy, Vanessa.

But fuck… those arms. That chest. I could already imagine how heavy and solid he’d feel pinning me down.

"Rough night?" he asked as the elevator began its ascent. His voice was deep, smooth, with a low rumble that vibrated straight between my legs.

I glanced at him, trying not to squirm.

"What makes you say that?"

"You stabbed that elevator button like it personally offended you." His tone was light, teasing, but there was a darker edge beneath it.

"Plus, you've got that look."

"What look?"

"The 'I just dealt with something infuriating and I'm about three seconds from either screaming or crying' look."

He leaned against the elevator wall, casual and relaxed, but the way his shirt pulled tighter across his broad chest made it impossible not to notice how fucking built he was.

"I work in hotels. You learn to read people."

Despite myself, I felt my lips twitch.

"That obvious?"

"Only to someone paying attention."

His eyes dropped for just a second, tracing the curve of my breasts under my dress before meeting mine again.

"And I’m very good at paying attention."

There was something about the way he said it — low and deliberate — that made my stomach flip and my pussy clench.

Like he had been paying attention. To the way my nipples were already tightening against my bra. To the way my thighs pressed together.

The elevator chimed. Fifteenth floor.

"This is me," he said, maneuvering the cart toward the doors. Then he paused, looking back at me.

"For what it's worth? Whatever happened? Their loss."

The doors closed before I could respond.I stood there, staring at my reflection in the polished elevator doors, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. My panties were already damp. Just from a few minutes in an elevator with him.

Pathetic… but I couldn’t stop picturing those strong arms lifting me, those big hands spreading my thighs, that deep voice growling filthy things in my ear while he stretched me open.

My room was on the twenty-third floor.

A corner suite that the conference had comped for speakers. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. King-size bed with luxury linens. A bathroom bigger than my first apartment.

None of it mattered. I felt hollow.I kicked off my heels and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. My phone buzzed. Another text from Trevor, no doubt.

I'd already blocked his calls.

Trevor: Vanessa please. Let me explain.

Trevor: It didn't mean anything.

Trevor: You're overreacting.

That last one made me see red. I was overreacting? I'd caught him kissing someone else and I was overreacting?

I blocked his number entirely and tossed my phone across the bed.The silence was deafening.

I should call someone. My sister. My best friend. Anyone. But the thought of rehashing what happened, of hearing the pity in their voices, made me want to crawl under the covers and never emerge.

Instead, I stood and crossed to the minibar. It was stocked with tiny bottles of liquor that cost more than a full-size bottle at the store, but I didn't care. I grabbed the vodka and a can of tonic water.

A knock at the door made me jump. I wasn't expecting anyone.

Frowning, I crossed to the door and checked the peephole.

The room service guy from the elevator stood there, holding a covered tray. I opened the door.

"I didn't order anything."

"I know." He lifted the cover, revealing a burger, fries, and a slice of chocolate cake.

"But you looked like you could use it." I stared at him.

"I don't understand."

"The look you had in the elevator? I've seen it before. Usually means someone needs comfort food."

He shrugged, almost sheepish, but his eyes lingered on my body a second too long, tracing the dip of my waist and the swell of my hips.

"This is my break. I grabbed extra from the kitchen. Thought you might be hungry."

Something in my chest cracked. This stranger—this absurdly attractive stranger—had brought me food because I looked sad.

And the way he was looking at me now… like he wanted to devour something far more satisfying than the burger.

"That's..." I swallowed hard. "That's really kind. But I can't accept—"

"Sure you can." He stepped forward, and I found myself moving back automatically, letting him into the room.