Beautiful Forever by Geneva Lee

Author:Geneva Lee
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ivy Estate

Chapter 12

The next morning, the siren song of New York lures me out of bed. I leave Jameson sleeping peacefully, eager to venture out on my own. It’s liberating to be in a city hundreds of miles from where you live especially given my newfound infamy in my hometown. Tugging my hair into a messy knot at the top of my head, I slip into a sun dress and sandals. I barely remember to grab my sunglasses before I head out the door. The hotel is quiet. In a few hours, the halls will be filled with people checking in and out, businessmen meeting for lunch, and the cleaning staff coming to make beds. I prefer it this way. I enjoy the relative anonymity of the crowds bustling along the street and the sense of being lost in the chaos.

It’s nearly impossible to go unnoticed here, not when you’re walking down the halls with Jameson West. It’s a bit like being caught with the commanding general. The staff doesn’t salute him, but everyone stops what they’re doing and grovel. He’s accustomed to it having spent his whole life bouncing around between his father’s properties, shaking hands, and glad-handing; it’s second nature to him. I prefer to blend into the wallpaper. The elevator delivers me to the first floor. I’m a few steps toward the staircase that will deposit me into the main lobby when I spot Mr. White; so much for going unnoticed. While the manager’s effusive hospitality is understandable, I’m not up for it at seven in the morning.

I freeze at the top landing and begin to pivot slowly. If I take the elevator another flight down, I could exit through the bellhops’ entrance; but before I can flee, Mr. White calls my name. “Miss Southerly. Miss Southerly.” I do what any confident, well-adjusted woman would do in this situation. I pretend I don’t hear him. Scurrying back toward the elevator, I jabbed the button and pray the cars haven’t been called to higher floors. A light ding over my head, and I’m relieved when one opens just as Mr. White’s insistent call grows closer. Inside, I press the button to close the doors and head to the lower lobby. It’s empty, save for a bellhop who’s too busy tagging stored luggage to notice me.

I push the sunglasses onto the bridge of my nose and head out the side door. Despite the early hour, it’s already muggy. My forehead instantly dampens in the presence of the unfamiliar humidity. Growing up in Las Vegas I’m no stranger to heat, but desert heat isn’t like this. By the time I happen upon a little pastry shop a few blocks away, I’m swiping at the sweat collecting under the rim of my sunglasses. I can’t help but wonder as I stare into the pastry case if New Yorkers know how good they have it. Sure, back home I could choose between a gourmet champagne brunch courtesy of whatever celebrity chef has plastered his name on the local hotel or a massive buffet at all hours.

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