Waiting for the Sun (Waiting for the Sun #1) Read online

  I scan the bustling lobby, which is filling up fast. I’ll be waiting here for hours.

  He smiles. “It’s a really nice room.”

  Hmm…go with this stranger who could potentially be a serial killer or take my chances in the Four Seasons lobby? Live a little, huh? The man is seriously hot.

  Have you ever watched an episode of The Fall and thought, Yeah, I’d let him murder me? Well, here we are.

  “What’s the other why?” I ask. “Why are you offering me a room?”

  “I told you, it’s not being…” His expression turns pensive. “You mean, why do I care that you take it?”

  I shrug. “Now that you mention it.”

  His eyes glaze over with a faraway look. “Because you’re kaput, and it would disappoint my mother if I abandoned you in your state of kaput-ness.”

  Heat colors my cheeks. “You heard that, did you?”

  “It’s a great word, but no one ever uses it.” He’s quiet for a moment, then clears his throat as his focus returns to me. “Anyway, where were we?”

  “The room.” I sit back and drag my fingers over the smooth suede of the armrest. “Can I at least reimburse you for the night?”

  Darian pushes off the love seat and stands. “That’s not necessary, Ms. Valentine,” he says formally as he drapes his coat over his arm. “It’s already paid for. Company perk.” He nods toward the window behind me. “If you want it, it’s yours, but we should probably get going before it gets too crazy out there.”

  “Please, call me Frankie.”

  He takes a few steps toward the door. I start to follow him and then stop and drop my duffel.

  His smile is sincere when he turns around. “Francesca, I promise, you’re safe with me.”

  The use of my given name is not lost on me. My instinct is to correct him, but I don’t.

  It isn’t often I hear it, and when I do, it’s by doctors or bank tellers or the little old lady who delivers my mail. They draw it out in clunky syllables—Fran-chess-ka—as if saying it takes effort.

  “Francesca?”

  But the way Darian says it, it’s like warm caramel melting on the tongue. Rich and smooth. Effortless.

  I shake my head to clear it. “I should let Jane know.”

  “Jane?”

  “My friend, and…” My words fall away when I notice Darian’s picture displayed prominently on the far side of the lobby. “Wait, who are you?”

  “I hosted a small business panel here earlier,” he says.

  “And you’re friends with the manager?”

  “I had drinks with him last night. I wouldn’t call us friends.”

  “You’re telling me I owe my free weekend at the Four Seasons to a couple of cocktails?”

  His lips stretch in a grin and he holds out his hand. “Can I see your phone?”

  “Sure, uh…hold on a sec.” I bend to rummage through my bag, digging through a week’s worth of clothes as shoes, socks, and bras spill over the side. “I know I…” I pat my sweater, even though it doesn’t have any pockets, and then my jeans. “Voila,” I say, handing it over.

  Darian laughs. He snaps a photo of his driver’s license, then hands it back. “Text that to your friend. If you go missing, she’ll know where to look.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I slide my phone in my pocket.

  He zips my duffel and throws it over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

  Darian’s driver—company perk number two—delivers us to The Mendón. We go straight to the front desk where Darian gets me checked in, swapping my name for his on the reservation.

  “Thanks again,” I say once we’re inside the elevator. “This is generous. More than generous.”

  He adjusts my bag on his shoulder. “It’s no trouble.”

  The door opens to a wide corridor that serves as a vestibule of sorts for the four suites that make up the top floor. He stops at the first set of double doors on the right.

  “So, I was thinking.” He sets my duffel at my feet. “I’m going to have dinner delivered to my room. Would you like to come over? I mean…would you like to have dinner in my room? Are you hungry?”

  I giggle as he stumbles over his words.

  “Wow,” he says, a scarlet flush sweeping across his cheeks. “That sounded much better in my head. Hey, would you like to come to my hotel room alone and ‘have dinner’?” He emphasizes that last part with air quotes, and I burst with laughter. “God, listen to me. Let’s try this again. Would you like to join me downstairs in the very public hotel restaurant?”

  “I’d love to join you for dinner,” I say, “but the very public hotel restaurant had a very long line reaching into the lobby, and I’m starving. Room service sounds perfect. Just promise you won’t kill me until after I’ve eaten.”

  He crosses his heart with both hands as a smile slides over his face. “You have my word.”

  “Whoa.”

  Darian wasn’t kidding; this is a really nice room. I walk through the foyer to the living area and lean against the honey-colored leather chaise lounge. Plush white carpet, royal-blue damask wallpaper, two massive crystal chandeliers. I could stay here for weeks and never set foot outside the door.

  I pick up the remote on the end table and press the button labeled Divider.

  No way!

  The entire white-paneled wall in front of me lifts to the lofty two-story ceiling, revealing the bedroom hidden behind. Make that three massive crystal chandeliers. The oversized bed, dressed in white down bedding, has so many pillows I make a mental note to allot myself time to remove them before climbing in. The master bath is just as grand with a marble tub so deep I could snorkel in it.

  If Jane could see me now.

  Oh crap, Jane…

  My phone vibrates in my hand the second I take it out of my pocket.

  “Frankie! Finally!” she screams in my ear. “My phone must have died as soon as I left Austin. Are you okay? What happened? And why did you text me some hot guy’s driver’s license? Is this a new drunken scavenger hunt you’re trying without me? Because I’d rather you wait—”

  “So I assume you’re home? You’re not on your way back to Austin, are you?”

  “Not yet, but I’m walking out the door right now.”

  “Don’t bother,” I say, failing to curb the smile in my voice. “I’m good for tonight.”

  “Good for to—” Jane stops mid-sentence, and I can practically see her eyebrows rocket to her hairline. “Shit, Frankie, did you meet someone…already? Is it driver’s license guy? He’s super yummy and older, though he certainly doesn’t look it.”

  “He’s not that much older.” I bring up the image of his ID and try to do the math in my head.

  “He’s thirty-six, slowpoke,” Jane says. “Man-aged. And he’s from Miami. I’ve always wanted to go to Florida.”

  Me too.

  “I think you’re jumping the gun a little. He’s just being nice.” Slouching against the shower door, I give her the CliffsNotes version of the last two hours.

  “He’s being more than nice. Swoon. It’s so romantic,” she says, sighing. “Is there an adjoining door? Because I had this idea for our book—”

  “Jane…” I step out of the bathroom and scan our adjoining wall. Sure enough, there’s an adjoining door.

  “Okay, fine,” she says. “But just so you know, I stashed the box of condoms in your bag.”

  “Jesus, Jane. Whatever. How’s my godson?”

  “He’s fine. He’s five. Just missed his mommy.” She relaxes her tone. Jane can be a little scattered, but nothing centers her quite like her son. “Go on now. Don’t worry about us. I’ll be here, Googling your mystery man,” she says. “I’m proud of you, but—and please don’t take this the wrong way—you’re rusty.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I just mean…less is more. Don’t talk too much. Avoid spaghetti. Actually, avoid anything with sauce.”

  “He hasn’t run screaming yet
.” I take a deep breath. “The truth is, I’m a little nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve…well, since I’ve done anything.”

  “You know I was teasing, right?”

  I shrug, which she obviously can’t see. “I didn’t exactly think this through. I guess I kind of did—for all of five seconds—but not really. That’s not like me, Jane.”

  “Nothing you’ve done today is like you. Maybe you’ve changed.” She pauses and I hear Jacob’s sleepy voice call to her in the background.

  “You should go,” I say. “Give Jacob a kiss for me.”

  “I will. And, Frankie, all jokes aside, you need to be careful. We don’t know him. Stay alert, and don’t drink too much. And make sure you take your Taser just in—”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  We end our call, and I return to the bathroom to freshen up.

  Should I change? No, this isn’t a date. It’s just dinner. In a stranger’s hotel room.

  I decide to stay in my cream cowl-neck sweater, black jeans, and black leather riding boots. I dab my favorite honeysuckle oil behind my ears. I check my nose. I brush my teeth. I twist my long hair into a bun and make up my face, so it looks like I didn’t just make up my face. With my light-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and super fair skin, it’s a skill I’ve had to master over the years. But I have to be careful. There’s a fine line between tramp and translucent, and my goal is to fall somewhere in between.

  I open my adjoining door and only knock once before Darian opens his.

  Well, hello there.

  He’s changed out of his suit and into a pair of distressed jeans, torn at the knees, and a slim-fit Grateful Dead T-shirt. His biceps press lightly against the sleeves, and I have to fight the urge to touch them.

  “I’m glad you came,” he says, closing the door behind me. “I was worried you might have come to your senses.”

  An arch smile plays on my lips. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I drop my purse on the coffee table in the living area and sit on the arm of the sofa. Then I feel stupid for not just sitting on the sofa, so I slide down the arm to the cushion, tipping over a little as I land.

  That was graceful.

  I try to recover by crossing one leg over the other while leaning against the back of the couch, but I’m not quite long enough to do both, so I kind of lie there, stretched over the cushion, like it’s a perfectly normal way to sit.

  Darian clears his throat. “Would you like a drink?”

  Yes, several.

  “Please. Whatever you’re having.”

  Needing something to do with my hands, I reach for the remote control on the coffee table.

  “Dirty martini?”

  “Perfect.”

  Darian peers at me through the mirror hanging above the wet bar as he opens a bottle of Tito’s and a jar of olives. “You can play something if you want.”

  The room floods with Kenny G as soon as I press the Music button, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from laughing. “Easy listening, huh?” I lower the volume.

  A grin spreads across Darian’s face. He scoops ice from the ice bucket, and it clinks loudly as it tumbles into the glass shaker. He pours the vodka over the ice and shakes it. “It’s not what you think.”

  “It’s not my place to judge,” I say, setting the remote beside me on the sofa.

  His smile converts to a laugh as he divides the mixture between two glasses and garnishes them with olives. He brings me my drink and then nods toward the floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a perfect view of the city. “Terrace?”

  I follow him outside. He sets his glass on the patio table and slips his hands in his pockets.

  “So, what’s your story, Francesca? How did you manage to get yourself stranded?”

  “I’m not that stranded. I don’t live far.” I take a sip and struggle to keep a straight face. I think the dirty may be missing from the dirty martini. “I came with my friend, but as soon as we got here she had to leave. Her son’s sick,” I say, setting my glass beside his. “It’s my own fault for not confirming the reservation, especially since I don’t have a badge.”

  Darian’s eyes widen. “You came to South By without a badge?”

  “If you stick to the smaller day parties, they’re not really necessary.”

  “But you miss the best parties, the best concerts.”

  “I suppose. But I’ve never had one, so I don’t know what I’m missing.”

  Badges are expensive—like a thousand dollars expensive—and they aren’t necessary. I’d much rather put that money toward our room. Or food. Or Barnes & Noble. Jane and I always skip the badge and attend just the free daytime events. But sometimes she gets a wild hair and attempts to sneak us into a badge-only evening showcase, like she did last year.

  I pick up my drink and take another sip.

  Darian crosses his arms over his chest and studies me. “Hmm…so your friend had to leave, and you decided to stay? By yourself?” He strokes his chin with his index finger and thumb. “That sounds like something I would do.”

  “Vacationing solo is new for me, but I’m a loner by nature so I thought I’d give it a shot.”

  Room service interrupts the silence that follows, and Darian excuses himself to let them in. I lean over the iron railing with my chest pressed against the beveled edge. Thick lines of people crowd the sidewalks and spill onto the street. It’s dark, and I suspect the evening’s showcases will begin soon.

  As I turn to go inside, my phone buzzes a text from my back pocket.

  Jane: How’s it going? Mystery man behaving? What did you order?

  Frankie: Totally awkward start but better now. Ordered ribs with extra sauce.

  Jane: Calling BS on the ribs!

  Frankie: Jacob asleep?

  Jane: Of course not. We’re about to start book #3.

  Frankie: Don’t keep him waiting. We’ll talk later.

  Jane: Be safe and text me before 12 or I’m calling 911.

  Frankie: K. Love you.

  Jane: U 2.

  I look up as Darian steps onto the terrace.

  “Hungry?” he asks. “I thought we’d eat inside.” He juts his chin toward the street below. “It’s getting pretty loud down there.”

  With the doors closed, the noise from outside is completely muted. Darian turns the easy-listening station on low, and “Careless Whisper” drifts through the speakers.

  “You’re not going to knock this one, are you?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “This one doesn’t count. Everyone loves George Michael.”

  “Everyone loves Kenny G,” he says with conviction.

  I give him a sideways glance, and he scoffs under his breath as he removes the lids from our plates. A thick wave of garlic hits me, and my stomach rumbles.

  “This smells fantastic,” I say of the Texas-size rib eyes he ordered. “And Kenny G doesn’t even love Kenny G.”

  Another scoff.

  We sit at one corner of the long dining table. Darian picks up a bottle of wine and immediately sets it down. “Shit. I didn’t even think to ask if you were vegetarian.”

  “I live in Texas,” I say. “I’m not sure that’s even allowed.”

  “Good thing because I think those five green beans they stuck on our plates are meant for decoration.” He pours the wine and hands me a glass. “Should we toast?”

  “We should definitely toast.”

  “Okay, how about…” He purses his lips and then smiles. “To the Four Seasons?”

  A warm, fuzzy feeling blooms in my chest. “To the Four Seasons.”

  He lifts his glass to his lips and lets it rest there for a second before taking a sip. “Huh. That’s pretty good.”

  “You sound surprised.” I taste it. It’s better than good and nothing like the plum-heavy merlot I usually drink.

  He turns the bottle until the label faces me. “It’s a Texas cab. I wanted to try something local, but I’ll be honest, I wasn’t expecting much.”
r />   “Because you’re in Texas?” I tease, cutting off a piece of my steak. I take a bite, closing my eyes as the crispy, salty crust touches my tongue.

  Holy Moses, that’s good.

  “Well, yeah,” he says. “But to be fair, Florida doesn’t scream fine wine either.”

  “Touché.” I twist the cap off a bottle of San Pellegrino, pour a little into my water glass, and pass him the rest. “So, what’s your story?”

  Darian straightens. “My story…”

  “Just the basics. Are you from Miami, or are you a transplant? And what do you do that has you hosting panels at South By?” My hand flies up. “Wait, one more. If you weren’t working this week, what band would you want to make a surprise appearance?”

  His smile is hesitant. “Okay, I’m game,” he says slowly as he cuts into his rib eye. He eats a small piece and then chases it with a sip of wine. “But you go first.”

  I lean forward, wrestling my chair closer to the table. “I live outside of a little town called Fisher Springs. I’m a party-planner”—mostly—“and if I were staying, I’d love to see Cross to Bear.”

  Darian relaxes in his seat with his elbows planted on the armrests. His gaze fixes on mine, and he grins as if he’s going to tease me, as if I’d said One Direction, not CTB. It’s an annoying assumption but one I’m used to. Their pretty-boy front man garners a hefty preteen following, which doesn’t do their serious fans any favors.

  “Your turn,” I say, reaching across the table for the bread basket.

  Darian’s grin melts into a lazy smile. “I was born and raised in Miami, I own an independent record label, and I’d love to see The Doors.”

  My hand stalls over a dinner roll. “Shut up. Seriously? The Doors?”

  “I know. I’m aging myself,” he says with a laugh. “It’s probably not likely. I hear their lead singer’s a bit dead.”

  “No, it’s not that.” I grab his wrist, then quickly release it. “The Doors is my all-time favorite band. I’m borderline obsessed.” I take a slow sip of my water, followed by an equally slow breath. “It was something I shared with my dad.”

  “Shared?”

  “He passed away six months ago.”