Free The Melanie Chronicles by Kim Golden Page B

the richly hued wood details and thick damask curtains. In a cabinet by the elevator were souvenirs of the hotel's past: a black and white photograph of a debonair Sean Connery in his younger James Bond days, programs from an official visit by the King of Norway, a personal note written by the Prince of Wales. She nearly expected someone from the pages of Tatler to breeze past her, some statuesque titled beauty with a name like Hermione Rhys-Jones that'd barely notice Melanie and would stalk over to Damian and plant lingering kisses on both cheeks. But so far the only other guests checking in were two elderly women, both in mud-colored tweed suits and sturdy looking pumps with thick heels. One of the bellhops was loading their luggage onto a trolley. From the looks of it, they'd planned a long stay. And the bellhop, a young man no older than Melanie and Damian, already looked exhausted by the weight of their bags.
     
    In the elevator, Damian handed her a plastic card with their room number printed on it. She slid it into her jeans pocket.
    "How many times have you stayed here?" she asked casually.
    He shrugged. "A few. Now that my dad has decided to rediscover his Scottish roots, we're here a few times a year. We always stay here and then travel north to visit our cousins."
    "Am I the only girl you've brought here?"
    "No. Is that a problem?"
    "No, no. I sort of expected it," she said, but a part of her was disappointed. She knew they'd sleep together here and she didn't want to be in the same bed with him that he'd shared with other girls. She was tired of being haunted by the ghosts of ex-girlfriends. That had been a thorn in her relationship with John: traces of his exes were always around them, no matter what.
    "It's not the same room, if that's what you're thinking." He reached for her hand. "My parents always arrange suites. I didn't want that. We've got a nice room on the fourth floor."
    The elevator slid to a halt. The doors opened slowly, and they exited. Hand in hand, they walked along the carpeted hallway, the floorboards squeaking beneath their feet. There was something eerie about the hall. Perhaps it was the quiet. She almost felt as though the hotel were deserted for there were no sounds from the other rooms. Was anyone watching them through the peepholes? The hush made her feel as though the hotel was holding its breath, waiting to catch them off guard and startle them with a haughty laugh or a whispered jibe.
    She gripped his hand a little tighter.
     
    One night when she and Damian had been studying for their final on A Midsummer Night's Dream , he launched across the table and kissed her long and hard. White flames shot through her like liquid fire, burning away the icy core that had formed in her. Maybe it was the play's fairies and their shenanigans that had triggered what had blossomed into weeks of kisses stolen in the library stacks, of quickies on the tables of the library's private study rooms. The subterfuge was exciting and nerve-wracking. How could she want him so much when she still loved John? She couldn't look at John without feeling the sour burn of rejection coursing through her. But when Damian was around he made her forget John, at least for a while.
    They'd been so furtive.
    After the first time they'd had sex, they'd agreed it was best to keep this to themselves.
    "If we tell anyone," Damian had murmured in her ear after that first time, "they'll just make you feel guilty about not waiting around for John and he'll give me grief about being with you..."
    Damian was right, of course he was. The more she tried to move on, the less her friends seemed to understand.
    Though John was already with his new girlfriend Chloe, he'd still reacted whenever he'd seen Melanie with someone else. And Melanie couldn't stop herself from watching him and forcing herself to stare each time Chloe bent in for a kiss. Sometimes she'd caught herself biting her lip so hard she'd drawn blood. Then she'd looked