The Lover’s Secret (No Exceptions #1)(4)
Author: J.C. Reed

The place was pure Zen. It made me wonder how life was for the VIPs of the world, for those who weren’t too shy to spend thousands of dollars a night in such luxury accommodations, just to wake up each morning to the knock of someone bringing a three-course breakfast or to spend half their day at the spa that occupied an entire floor.

It wasn’t the life I had been born into, nor was it the life I needed to be happy. But I could certainly see the appeal and why it might be alluring, even for a day.

Or even a night with him.

Excitement washed over me as I stepped off the elevator, onto the fifty-first floor and stopped in front of Room 512. Soft music carried over from inside—perhaps a TV set or radio. I swiped the keycard, unsure if I did it the right way, but it didn’t work. I took a deep breath and knocked softly.

Nothing stirred.

I knocked again, this time a little louder.

Finally, the music was switched off, and the door was thrown open.

A guy stepped out.

I frowned. Just like my prospective date for the night, this man was in his early thirties and dressed in an expensive business suit. The only problem was: I had no idea who he was.

“You’re early,” he said, opening the door wider to let me in.

My gaze traveled past him to scan his room. I took in the open notebook on the table and the loose sheets of paper spread haphazardly around a glass of what looked like scotch or whiskey.

“I’m not paying extra just because you’re early,” he mumbled, and a whiff of alcohol hit my nostrils.

What the heck?

I took a step back as realization kicked in. “Sorry. Wrong door. I, uh…” My words failed me. It wasn’t at all how I had imagined my first one-night stand would go down. How could I explain to this man that I wasn’t at his service, in a situation so mortifying I could barely talk? I thought it over for a second, then decided being short and prompt was the way to go. “Sorry again…and have a nice evening,” I muttered and turned my back to him when he blocked my path.

“Wrong door? That’s about the lamest excuse I’ve ever heard. You know that?” He sounded affected, maybe even annoyed, but a mask of friendliness remained on his face. “You chat me up online, only to leave me hanging. Why would anyone pay in advance for a stripper?” He paused for effect.

I just shook my head, signaling that I had no idea.

“Correct me, but I thought we had something. You wanted to meet with me here, so here I am.”

I groaned inwardly; he was taking my rejection personally. I couldn’t avoid the low chuckle escaping my lips.

Me, a stripper?

The very idea of me being a stripper was hilarious. In a way, it was a compliment; while I had the curves, I lacked the long legs. Besides, I could barely swing a few dance moves.

“I understand your confusion, but it’s clearly a mistake,” I explained.

His eyes lingered on me, pondering, and I caught another whiff of alcohol. “Is this some kind of game you’re playing, part of the act or something?” he finally said, taking another step forward. “You know what? Forget what I said earlier. I’ll pay for the extra time. Now just move your hot ass inside and give me what you promised the other night.” His hand went around my waist, close enough to touch my ass, as he pointed behind him.

He has to be kidding.

For a moment, surprise kept me glued to the spot, until I realized that my amusement could easily be mistaken for flirting, particularly in his alcohol-induced hazy state of mind. But it was too late to tell him that. His hands grabbed my ass in what seemed to be some sort of bizarre encouragement to join him. I pushed him away a little harder than intended. Hurt crossed his face, and for a moment, I actually felt sorry for him. He hadn’t been rude, and he was clearly confused.

“Listen, I’m not who you think I am.” I held up my guest card. “See? I’m not playing games. I really did just knock on the wrong door. Now, if you’ll excuse me and keep your hands off me—”

“What’s going on?” a deep voice resounded behind me, cutting me off.

I turned to peer at my actual date heading for us—in a hurry. A breath of relief escaped me…until I caught his expression.

Oh shit!

He was furious.

And by furious I meant he was close to turning into a raging bull.

There was no need to ask him how much he had seen; the throbbing vein in his temple said it all. His face was an angry mask as he headed straight for the poor man. I stepped in front of my date, but before I even got the chance to explain, he shoved the man back against the wall with no questions, no explanations—just like that.

I stared, still glued to my spot, rendered speechless.

“What the f**k, dude?” The man stepped toward him, raising his hands in the process.

For a moment, I was afraid they might start throwing punches; I was entirely opposed to any form of violence whatsoever, but there would be little I could do to stop it if it ensued. If I didn’t know any better, I would go as far as saying that stopping a fight between two testosterone driven men would be as hard as breaking up a fight between two pit bulls.

“Don’t you f**king touch her again.” My date poked his finger into the guy’s chest, as if the venom in his voice had not carried enough threat.

Standing next to my date, the man looked small. He looked up into my date’s angry face, and then his glance moved back to me, as if it was all my fault. “She’s my goddamn stripper,” the guy said. As laughable as it almost was, in the midst of the palpable tension, he was still adamant that I had to be there for him. “I paid for her, man. It’s her job to please me.”

“Are you f**king joking?” my date barked. He roughly grabbed the man by the collar and shoved him back against the wall. “Does my pregnant girlfriend look like a stripper to you?”

The guy’s hesitant gaze brushed me from head to toe, lingering on my tummy.

My date’s forearm muscles tensed a moment before he yanked at the man’s collar hard—so hard he forced his gaze away from me.

I wanted to point out that being three months pregnant was nothing. I was hardly showing. If anything, I looked slightly bloated, as though I was struggling with constipation. Instead, I said, “It’s clearly a misunderstanding, Jett. Let it go.” I tried to pull my date away, but he didn’t budge. Rather, his grip on the man’s collar tightened so hard I was sure the fabric would tear any moment. I sighed. Ever since we had found out about the pregnancy, Jett had been more overprotective than ever.