“I moved you to the premium floor,” the clerk said with a knowing smile.
When I opened the suite door, the lights were already on.
She sat on the couch, legs crossed, heel dangling from her toes like she’d been waiting long enough to get comfortable.
“You’re late,” she said.
“I think you have the wrong room.”
“No,” she replied. “I picked the right guest.”
She stood, walked to the minibar, poured two glasses without asking, and handed me one.
“Relax,” she added. “You’ve been wound tight since the lobby.”
“How would you know that?”
She smiled over the rim of her glass.
“I watch before I approach.”
Then she locked the door with a soft click — without breaking eye contact.
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