Page 6 of Beautiful Deception
“Let’s get inside before we freeze,” she grumbles as a gust of frigid wind hits my face.
I tighten the scarf over my neck and follow her lead, carrying a little bag stocked with items to last seven days in this mountain villa. I walk up the steps, tracking the indented footprints in the snow, but the double door opens before I can grasp the handle.
A young man in a prestigious university sports jersey greets us with a wide grin and ushers us inside the bright villa. He introduces himself as the host’s son and recently named pitcher for his university’s baseball team.
I smile back awkwardly, hoping he’ll take the hint that I’m not here to make friends but rather to sit in my assigned room and read my books or watch downloaded movies. I’ve come prepared for boredom.
“Are we the last ones here?” Junnie asks, scouring her surroundings and up the curved staircases leading to the second floor.
“I think so, but I have to ask around,” the young man says after taking our invitation letters and guiding us up the left staircase. “And—”
Another man, one I just saw last week, comes around the corner and merely stares at me with those dark eyes. With the spotless chandelier lights, I notice they’re closer to black than dark brown.
“One of the guests, Remo,” the young man introduces with an exaggerated gesture to the quiet invitee.
Junnie spares Remo a passing glance, judging and cautious, and requests her room so she can put her bags down. The other man joyfully extends his assistance and offers to take her bag, which she declines politely.
“How did you get an invitation?” I ask as I adjust the strap of my travel bag on my shoulder.
Remo offers a hand, and the straining on my muscles after a HIIT lesson with Junnie desperately needs relaxation. I don’t know why I thought I could handle such intensity, but the aftermath felt nice, albeit sore and exhausting.
I hand the bag to him, two hardcover books knocking against one another as he wraps the long straps around his large hand for a better hold.
He doesn’t answer my question, and I’m not too interested in pressing him for it. He works for the FBI, so he’s probably on the job, but a part of me wonders what the job entails.
“This is your room,” he says, pointing to my name etched onto an oak plaque.
“Mine is three doors down.” Remo aims at the end of the hall, the last door on the left with his name on the same color oak plaque.
It’s not by alphabetical order or first come, first served. Because Junnie’s room is closer to the stairs, the chandelier lights shine more harshly on her name than on others.
“First time meeting these people?” he inquires out of the blue as I twist the doorknob.
“I think so,” I say with a hesitant nod. “If not, maybe at a party or something.”
Birthdays are the closest I would file “party” under. I lost count of how many stranger’s birthday parties I’ve attended because one or both of their parents knew mine and went as a courtesy.
“You’re here because of what had happened the last time?” I ask, more of politeness than genuine curiosity.
I’ve seen enough of my parents’ business practices firsthand to stay away from matters that don’t concern me.
Remo’s shrewd gaze flickers ever so slightly as if he’s reading insignificant cues on my face while he holds the doorknob in stifled silence. The door to my room closes after an inconspicuous click, and the room swells with deafening silence.
Putting the strange interaction into the back of my mind, I sift through my bag and put everything into place with a preoccupied thought of lunch.
By the time I’m done and have one foot out the door, Junnie leaves her room at the exact moment. She raises an eyebrow with a twitch at the corner of her lips before sauntering toward me.
“I thought I saw some spark between you two.” Junnie nudges her elbow into my waist.
I slap her forearm away and tie my hair up to stop it from tickling my neck. The building is too cold for just a long sleeve, too hot for a thick jacket, and way too dry for my neck to be covered.
“You were seeing things,” I scoff back just as another guest steps out of their room by the right staircase.
“We’re safer with him here,” Junnie teases with a finger tapping a rhythm on her chin. “He looks strong.”
“Better hope he’s not a bad apple.” I stifle a yawn and rub the back of my neck to get rid of my fatigue.
“He’s what,” she contemplates shortly, “thirty? Late-twenties?”