Page 40 of Worth Every Penny
I carry her through the bar and up the stairs, into the main area of the hotel.
“What’s your address?” I ask, but she makes no reply. “Kate?”
She gives a drowsy little snore against my chest.
Fuck it.She’s fallen asleep.
“Kate?”
No response. I repeat her name, a little louder this time, but it makes no difference. She continues breathing rhythmically against my chest.
I briefly debate shaking her awake to get her address out of her, but she needs the sleep. I walk over to the reception desk and the woman behind it looks up at me, recognition flaring in her eyes.
“Mr. Hawkston,” she says. “Do you need a room?”
“I do. The Penthouse.”
14
NICO
Kate rouses as I reach the Penthouse door. I set her down, and she leans against the wall, eyelids drooping. I press the keycard to the lock and push into the room.
The Penthouse is a vast suite, with a bed large enough to fit an entire family, and a separate sitting and dining room with glass windows all round.
I coax her inside.
“Wow,” she breathes, examining the suite, but she remains in the doorway, not moving beyond the threshold. “The penthouse? Fuck, Nico. Bold. Is there only one bed? How pres… presu… what’s the word?” she asks, waving a hand at me.
“Presumptuous?”
She clicks her fingers and points at me. Her head rocks, lolling this way and that like she can’t hold it straight. “Yes. That one.”
“I presume nothing. We’re not having sex.”
She frowns, one eye drooping shut a tad. “Then what are we doing here?”
Is she disappointed?
“You need to go to sleep,” I say. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s trying to work something out, but she’s too drunk to do it. “You could take me home.”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
She screws her eyes closed and then her face goes totally blank. “Don’t remember. Clapham. South London. Number fifty… fifty-something.”
Who the fuck doesn’t remember where they live?
I hold out my hand for the tiny handbag that’s slung over her shoulder. “Give it.”
She clutches it to her. “Why? You can’t look in my handbag. It’s private.”
I hum a laugh but retract my outstretched hand. “Driver’s license. Your address will be on it.”
She opens her bag and looks through it, frowns, then snaps it shut again. “It’s not there.” She gives a little shrug but doesn’t seem fazed at all that she’s lost it. Maybe it’s because she’s drunk, but part of me suspects she’s lying. “Guess I’d better stay after all.”
I affect my most disinterested nod. “It’s big enough.”