“The pig what?”
“Inside joke. I’ll take care of it.”
“You need a personal keeper.”
“You might be right about that.”
New York was nothing like LA . . . nothing! Flip-flops and shorts ruled on the West Coast. In New York, few in the professional world would be caught in flipping shoes and shorts, which were reserved for weekends and days at the Shore. If there was one rule Dakota’s mother taught her in life it was if you don’t know what you’re doing or have no idea how you managed to get where you are . . . fake it. Dakota lived by that on her first trip to The Big Apple . . . and now she had it down.
For reasons of neutrality, Dakota paid for her own upscale hotel room. Damn thing cost more per night than a month in her college dorm. She chose a Morrison to stay in. Might as well stay loyal to those she actually knew . . . or in her case, knew by proxy.
After her second meal with as many publishers the next day, Dakota’s head spun.
“They’re trying to make me fat.”
Desi set her purse on the desk in the small suite. “They’re trying to hand you four million. That’s what they’re trying to do.”
Dakota sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off her shoes. “A hell of a lot of money.”
Desi leaned against the desk, crossed her tiny arms over her chest. The woman was polished from head to toe. Her dress probably cost close to a grand, her shoes five hundred. Dakota knew she worked hard and deserved her eighty-dollar manicures but Dakota had only recently gotten used to handing out generous tips.
“Tell them it’s a series and we’ll double that amount.”
“I don’t know if it’s going to be a series . . . not yet. I have to write the book first, Desi. You know that about me.”
A light blinking from the phone caught Dakota’s attention. She used the distraction and picked up the phone to check her calls. “Hold that thought.”
The desk answered, but instead of patching her through to a message center, they took her call to the concierge.
“Ms. Laurens. We didn’t anticipate your arrival. Please accept our apology.”
“Excuse me?”
“Mrs. Morrison has asked that we meet your every need, Ms. Laurens. We have a bellhop coming to you now and your room is ready.”
Dakota looked around her suite . . . which she had to admit was the smallest one she’d found available. But this was New York and everything here cost way too much per square inch.
“I’m in a room.”
“Yes, ma’am . . . but we have another waiting for you. Please accept our apology.”
Dakota couldn’t be more confused.
Desi answered the door while Dakota tried to figure out what was going on.
“Ms. Laurens?” the bellhop asked.
Desi motioned toward Dakota, who decided to hang up the phone and deal with the person in front of her.
“I understand you’re moving rooms.” The bellhop stood rod straight, his hair gray at the sides. His uniform had straight lines and not one off-putting stain.
“This is the one I paid for,” Dakota told him.
“Yes, ma’am. Please follow me. If the room doesn’t meet your needs, you’re more than welcome to stay here.”
Dakota sent a puzzled look to Desi.
Her agent shrugged.
After grabbing her purse, Dakota let the employee lead her and Desi away.
They entered the elevator, where the bellhop swiped a card over a sensor before handing her the key. “In order to enter your room you must swipe this key here and press the floor within five seconds.”
The elevator shot to the top floor.
“We have you in number two.”
The bellhop opened the penthouse doors wide. The massive room spread out in front of her. Her suite faced west and the sun was setting. The view from this floor, the lights, the crystalline angles, the endless rows of buildings . . . New York lay sparkling in all her energetic glory below. “It’s breathtaking.”
The bellhop rocked back on his heels. “Mrs. Morrison asked that you call her sister if you have any concerns about the room. If it’s all right with you, Ms. Laurens, we’d like to transfer your things here.”
“I . . . ah, I can—”
“I assure you . . . nothing will be missed.”
Dakota’s head bobbed on her neck like a doll’s.
When the bellhop left the suite, Desi moved to the center of the living room and turned in a full circle. The great room spread over eight hundred feet, a piano sat in one corner, a bar and kitchen in another. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered views of the city and a portion of Central Park. Fresh flowers sat on a table by the door, a basket of fruit graced the dining table.
“How do you know a Morrison?” Desi was already headed toward one of the doors on the far side of the suite.
“I don’t.”
The master bedroom was larger than the living room in her condo. King-size bed, massive TV . . . a balcony with French doors. The bathroom looked like a Tuscan spa.
“He said Mrs. Morrison arranged this.”
“I know Monica, not her sister.”
Desi hesitated in the doorway of one of the extra rooms off the main suite. “Who’s Monica?”
“I met her at the conference.” Distracted, Dakota moved to the massive windows and stared at the setting sun. “She used to work with Walt.”
“Who’s Walt?”
“The doctor I’m dating . . . holy shit, Desi. This view is amazing.”
“Dakota!” Desi’s voice actually rose above Dakota’s thoughts. “Can you please connect the dots for me?”
“Monica is a sister-in-law to Mr. Morrison.”
“As in the owner of the hotel?”
“As in owner to many hotels . . . or so I found out when looking them up. Monica is a nurse practitioner who once worked with Walt. I told you about Walt, right?”
Desi shook her head and sat on one of the two plush sofas. “No.”
Dakota brought Desi up to date on her love life.
“So this is the guy who prompted your idea for the book.”
“This is the guy I had to blow off for this visit to New York.”
Before Desi could say anything else, the bellhop returned with her bags. She directed him to the room with her luggage and removed a tip from her purse.
He pocketed the cash quickly. Before he left the room, he said, “Again, we’re sorry for the inconvenience. The room provisions are complimentary, as is any in-room dining you may need during your stay. Have a nice evening, Ms. Laurens.”