I blink at him, confused by the question. Don’t hotel shuttles only go to the hotel?
“The Rockwood Resort, please?” I say, my voice uncertain and raspy. Am I getting a sore throat?
He looks equally perplexed by my reply, but nods and pulls away from the curb without further comment.
The drive takes less than five minutes, but it’s the most luxurious five minutes of my life. The heater blasts warm air at my face, and I angle the vents toward my bare shoulders, closing my eyes as feeling returns to my extremities.
Pins and needles prickle through my fingers, my toes, the tip of my nose. The warmth is almost painful after so long in the cold, but I don’t care. I’d take painful heat over comfortable numbness any day.
The resort glitters into view through the rain-speckled window. Valets in matching uniforms rush between expensive cars parked under a grand portico, and music and laughter filter past the main doors, audible even from inside the sedan.
Behind the massive glass walls of the lobby, elegant guests in black tie mingle, their champagne flutes sparkling under the huge chandeliers.
The car stops at the entrance. Without killing the engine, the driver steps out to open my door. The cold hits me like a slap, sharp enough to make me gasp. I shimmy out, taking my skirts with me. Being on my feet again is unbearably painful despite the cushion of the red carpet leading into the lobby.
After three steps on the plush runner, I can’t take it anymore. I stop, brace a hand against a marble column, and yank off one shoe, then the other.
I make a beeline for the check-in desk, the offending stilettos dangling from my fingers, my filthy train dragging behind me. When I run out of carpet, the cool, polished marble floor is heavenly against my raw, throbbing feet.
Every head in the lobby turns to stare. A woman in a sequined dress clutches her literal pearls. A man in a tuxedo chokes on his champagne. Conversations pause. I ignore everyone, lifting my chin and limping toward the massive reception desk like I own the place. Or at least, like I’m not about to be thrown out of it.
The concierge watches my approach with the neutrality of someone trained not to judge, though his eyes widen as I get closer. He’s young, mid-twenties, with styled brown hair and a name tag that reads Adam. His gaze flicks from my face to my bare feet to the trail dragging behind me and back up again.
I drop my shoes on the marble counter with a decisive thunk. “Good evening. I need a room for one night, please.”
“Evening, ma’am.” His voice is smooth and professional. “Do you have a reservation with us?”
“No.”
“And how will you be paying?” His gaze flicks to my dress, perhaps searching for a purse I do not have.
“With my phone.” I gesture at my bodice.
Adam blushes and looks away, typing into his computer with a placid expression. “May I see a form of identification, please?”
“Yeah, sure.” I fish my phone out of its boning prison and scroll through my photos. “Would a picture of my driver’s license work?”
“It would.”
The screen goes dark.
I stare at the black glass, my deranged reflection blinking back at me. Turns out my bridal makeup isn’t as waterproof as advertised.
I’d laugh, but I’m afraid I might break down crying if I let my emotions loose. I clear my throat instead, and in my most unaffected voice, ask, “Do you have a charger?”
Adam’s demeanor doesn’t change, but a note of apologetic firmness tinges his tone when he says, “Chargers are available for hotel guests only.”
My hand clenches around the dead phone. “I’m obviously checking in,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I understand, ma’am, but I can’t check you in without proper identification or a verified payment method. And I can’t lend hotel property to non-guests.” His smile is sympathetic in a way that makes me want to throw my useless phone at his head. “Hotel policy.”
I’m about to scream. A full-throated, horror-movie scream that will get me escorted out by security and land me in the local paper—when a voice cuts through the lobby noise behind me.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He sounds irritated. And disturbingly familiar.
I turn.