Page 85 of Lilacs and Leather
Me: No worries. We’re still meeting at The Valencia?
Rhett: Yes, ma’am. Lucas is working the bar there tonight, so he can keep you company while you wait.
Me: Didn’t he just work at that conference at Wickland House this morning?
Rhett: One of the bartenders is out sick and he’s picking up the slack.
Me: Has he never heard of delegating? He doesn’t have to do everything himself.
Rhett: From your lips to God’s ears, my love. I’ll see you soon.
I sigh as I slide into the driver’s seat and turn on the car before cranking the AC as high as it’ll go. Lucas needs to slow down before he works himself into an early grave. I resolve to talk some sense into him as I pull out of the back lot and head uptown toward The Valencia.
They originally built the hotel in the forties, and it had its heyday in the late sixties into the early eighties. Rhett told me how the building fell into disrepair as the cost of maintaining such a large hotel exceeded the profits when cheaper, more modern hotels sprung up. By the end of the twentieth century, it was abandoned and stood empty for years and was going to be demolished. Until, that is, the St. Clair Foundation got involved. Rhett did his own brand of digging and stumbled upon an old photo of Jimmy Carter holding a campaign event at the hotel during his congressional run. Just like that, it was declared a historical landmark and the St. Clair Foundation was given all the grant money they needed to return it to its former glory.
Now the hotel shines like new, its mid-century modern design harkening back to a golden age long past. The exterior of the sixteen-story building is smooth gray concrete with angular framing and balconies. The dark wood-paneled walls of the lobby accent the bold geometric carpet and rounded lighting and furniture, with colors and patterns that would be awful on their own, but somehow fit together perfectly. As I walk past the front desk, I smile at the gaggle of tourists in the room’s corner, gawking over the display of photos and memorabilia honoring Jimmy Carter with the photo that saved this building in the central place of honor. The bar is similarly furnished and decorated, with tables surrounded by curving, colorful chairs and hanging spherical pendant lights.
I spot Lucas at the bar, and his genial smile makes my stomach do a pleasant little flip. I slide onto a stool at the end of the bar facing the door, leaning forward onto the shiny counter. There’s a pleasant background hum of conversation, as well as some instrumental music from hidden speakers. Lucas lopes down to me, tossing a towel over one shoulder. He’s wearing a black button down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his toned forearms flex as he leans in toward me.
“Come here often?” he drawls, lips twisted in an ironic smolder.
I chuckle and shake my head. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?”
“Only if you want to be weird about it. Though it wouldn’t be the weirdest come on I’ve ever gotten.” Lucas laughs back, starting to mix a drink.
“Don’t leave me in suspense,” I say, smiling excitedly.
Lucas laughs to himself as he shakes the cocktail with practiced ease. The way his muscles move under his shirt makes my mouth water, and I have to swallow before I actually start drooling.
“I once had an eighty-six-year-old woman ask me if I knew a priest. When I asked why, she told me she was looking at her ninth husband but her go-to guy was in Aruba and she didn’t want me to get away before he came back,” he says, pouring the drink into a highball glass, adding a lime wedge, and sliding it across the bar toward me.
“I have so many questions. What’s in this?” I ask, stirring the drink a little.
“Gin. I did, too, but after I told her I didn’t know a priest, she walked away before I could ask,” Lucas comments, nodding to my drink.
I was his unofficial cocktail taster for drinks involving gin, as he refuses to drink liquor that tastes like “Christmas divorce” when there are better options. I take a small sip and hum with delight at the refreshing and floral drink. We banter back and forth for a while until we decide that the woman, who we named Doris, had killed her eight previous husbands after they failed to satisfy her voracious sexual appetite. Her priest was on the run after the last one, trying to find Jesus again.
Lucas moves off to make some drinks for a server and I sip my cocktail while looking around. The restaurant is filling up, and the conversational drone gets a little louder. I check my phone and frown. Rhett hadn’t said anything about when exactly he’d be done, and I can’t help the tickle of worry in the back of my head. I sigh before placing my phone face down next to my elbow. If something was truly wrong, Rhett would tell me.
As I’m scanning the room again, I freeze when my eyes find a familiar beautiful face in the lobby. Alexandra is smiling at a man in a suit, nodding along as he talks. She shakes his hand after a moment and watches as he walks out of the doors. The moment he’s out of sight, her smile fades and she rolls her shoulders. I want to look away, but before I can, her eyes swing to mine, and I’m caught. I blush and give her a small smile, but I don’t miss the tension in her shoulders as she looks back at me. There’s a pang of hurt in my chest at the reluctance in her face, the way she chews her bottom lip even if she doesn’t look away from me.
“Oh, good. She’s finally out of that stupid meeting,” Lucas says, suddenly appearing next to me.
I jump at the sound of his voice and snap my head around in time to see him waving. I look back to Alexandra with wide, slightly panicked eyes and see her smiling a little. I see her shoulders lift and fall as she takes a deep breath before striding with purpose across the restaurant toward us.
“I thought he’d never leave. Want your usual?” Lucas asks when she’s close enough.
“Please,” Alexandra answers emphatically as she gracefully slides onto the stool beside me.
I look down at my drink, scrambling to find something to say. After only interacting with her in passing for the last few weeks, I forgot how potent her presence is. Simply by being in a room, she demands attention. Her posture is perfect as she perches on the stool, one toned leg crossed over the other. She’s wearing a sleek charcoal gray dress today with a silver statement necklace and matching bangle. Her hair is back in a low bun, accentuating the flowing lines of her jaw. Her scent drapes over me like a blanket, fermented grapes and citrus and spice mixing to make my spine straighten and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Lucas sets a martini glass of clear liquor in front of her, and she takes a generous drink before shaking her head.
“How was ol’ Dickie, then?” Lucas prompts with a snort.
Alexandra rolls her eyes. “Richardis well, and as nosy as ever. He should have enough intel to give a satisfactory report, both from what I told him and what he dug up behind my back.”
“He’s a spy?” I ask quietly, looking around.