Free All the Pretty Lies by M. Leighton Page B

said,
interrupting her. “I’ve been stung by a jellyfish and I’m a mess. I
seriously don’t think this is the best way to lose my virginity.”
She was disappointed, but she agreed to go along with my ruse. Then
I called Dad, who sounded a bit suspicious, but didn’t press me,
which was a surprise.
    So now, I’m people watching. As they walk by,
I find myself wondering whether or not they have tattoos. It
doesn’t take me long to realize that Hemi has completely invaded my
brain. But if I’m to be overtaken, I can think of a million worse
things than being consumed by Hemi.
    I see the hotel door open again and Hemi
exits. My eyes rove his tall, lean frame as he moves.
    He put on his jeans and t-shirt before we
left Tybee, but now that I know what’s under them, I love watching
him even more. He walks with an easy grace and a confidence that
makes me feel breathless. He looks left and right before his eyes
rise to mine and stop. He doesn’t smile or nod. He just winks. And
my heart does a little flip.
    What a way to spread my wings!
    I smother my grin and try to control the
overactive hormones and imagination that have taken possession of
me lately.
    “We’re all set,” he says, as he plops down
behind the wheel. He starts the car and drives around the block to
approach the building from a different angle, one where a valet is
waiting at the curb to greet us. He comes to my side first,
politely opening the door and offering me his hand. I take it,
stepping onto the curb as he closes the door and heads to Hemi’s
side.
    “Do you have bags, sir? I can arrange for the
bellhop to—”
    “No, thank you. This was an unexpected stop,”
Hemi says as he gets out and hands the kid a folded bill.
    The valet nods, “Yes, sir.”
    Hemi comes to my side and puts his hand at my
lower back. “Shall we?” he says with a practiced sweep of his
hand.
    I narrow my eyes on him. “You’re really good
at this,” I observe. “Like, really good at this.”
    His expression is nonchalant. “I watch a lot
of Bond movies.”
    He opens the door for me and I step into a
luxurious lobby. The hardwoods are the color of coffee and the
furnishings look like a mixture of French and Italian antiques. I
could be wrong. What the hell do I know about decorating, other
than what I’ve seen on HGTV? Very little. But whatever it is, it’s
breathtaking.
    Several people nod at us as we make our way
through to the elevator. I’m glad I had the time to pull on my
shorts over my bottoms, and that the cover up I brought can
function as a shirt. It by no means makes me look like I fit in
here, but at least I don’t feel like Julia Roberts walking through
the Regent Beverly Wilshire.
    We take the elevator up to our floor. The
doors open with an expensive swoosh and usher us out into an
elegant hallway. Hemi turns left, so I follow. He stops four doors
down and slides a card into the slot below the knob. A green light
appears and is followed by a mechanical click. Hemi pushes the door
open and steps back to allow me to enter first.
    The room is opulent. That’s the first word
that comes to mind. The thick carpet is taupe, a few shades lighter
than the walls. There are splashes of color—a chocolate mink throw,
pillows of red and furniture of mahogany—but the bed is done in
white—white duvet, white pillows, white headboard. All in all, it’s
stunning.
    “Well,” I say as I perch carefully on the end
of the bed, “I don’t guess I need to ask if tattooing pays
well.”
    Hemi ignores me as he walks straight to the
bathroom. “Which side do you sleep on?” he asks when he reappears
with an armful of towels and washcloths.
    My mind stalls on his question. It’s then
that it occurs to me that there’s one bed. One big, beautiful,
luxurious bed. And two of us.
    “Umm, it doesn’t really matter. I can—”
    “It’s not a trick question, Sloane,” he says,
softening his words with a small smile. “I just need to know which
side to put