* * *
AFTER THE GAME, Cade found a parking spot on a side street a few blocks from Brooke’s place. Hand in hand, they leisurely walked in the direction of her apartment.
She looked over at Cade, curious about something. “I saw you talking to Zach’s head coach in the parking lot. Congratulating him on his victory, I assume?”
He smiled, busted. “Okay, okay. Noah’s idea about coaching stuck with me. It’s no big deal—I’m just going to work with the quarterbacks for a couple of hours on Tuesday afternoons. Assuming there aren’t any emergencies I need to handle at work.”
“Will the kids have to call you ‘Coach Morgan’?”
“They will if they don’t want to run sprints and do bag drills the entire practice.”
Brooke chuckled at that. Then, out of the blue, she remembered something. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you this. You’ll never guess what they served for breakfast on my flight out to Charlotte. A Denver omelette.”
Cade laughed. “Well, they are quite tasty.” He glanced at her sideways, his tone coy. “Now, did you ask if they always serve Denver omelettes, because that’s their thing, or if they tailor the breakfast to the specific passenger?”
“Ha, ha. You had that coming. Do I even want to know how many women before me enjoyed one of Cade Morgan’s Denver omelettes?”
“I can tell you who the last one will ever be.”
Brooke paused, quip raring to go, when the significance of those words hit her.
Oh.
Well, then.
She tugged Cade closer, then stood up on her toes and kissed him. “Nice save.”
They linked their fingers together, walking along Michigan Avenue, passing through the tree-lined courtyard adjacent to the historic Water Tower. It was a gorgeous late-summer night, with a warm breeze coming off the lake.
“Should we grab a late dinner?” Cade asked. “It’s Friday night, but I’m sure there’s some restaurant filled with over-caffeinated jackrabbits who would be more than happy to find a table for the illustrious Brooke Parker.”
“True. Although, it’s so nice outside tonight. Maybe instead we can find a wine bar with outdoor seating.”
“We could take my carriage there, Cinderella,” Cade joked, pointing in the direction of the horse-drawn carriages lined along the Water Tower courtyard, waiting with their tops down for passengers willing to shell out for a thirty-minute ride.
Brooke chuckled. Romantic, yes, but that was a little too touristy for their tastes.
Then it struck her.
“I just realized something,” she said. “We are one of those couples, walking hand in hand along Michigan Avenue, with no plans at all.” For two years she’d watched everyone else from her office window.
But now, here she was.
“So we are.” Cade let go of her hand and put his arm around her. He pulled her close, kissing the top of her head. “How does it feel?”
She turned and peered up at him, having only one answer to that.
“Perfect.”
Keep reading for a sneak preview of another irresistible contemporary romance from Julie James
Something About You
Available now from Berkley Sensation
One
THIRTY THOUSAND HOTEL rooms in the city of Chicago, and Cameron Lynde managed to find one next door to a couple having a sex marathon.
“Yes! Oh yes! YES!”
Cameron pulled the pillow over her head, thinking—as she had been thinking for the past hour and a half—that it had to end sometime. It was after three o’clock in the morning, and while she certainly had nothing against a good round of raucous hotel sex, this particular round had gone beyond raucous and into the ridiculous about fourteen “oh-God-oh-God-oh-Gods” ago. More important, even with the discounted rate they gave federal employees, overnights at the Peninsula weren’t typically within the monthly budget of an assistant U.S. attorney, and she was starting to get seriously POed that she couldn’t get a little peace and quiet.
Bam! Bam! Bam! The wall behind the king-sized bed shook with enough force to rattle her headboard, and Cameron cursed the hardwood floors that had brought her to such circumstances.
Earlier in the week, when the contractor had told her that she would need to stay off her refinished floors for twenty-four hours, she had decided to treat herself to some much-needed pampering. Just last week she had finished a grueling three-month racketeering trial against eleven defendants charged with various organized criminal activities, including seven murders and three attempted murders. The trial had been mentally exhausting for everyone involved, particularly her and the other assistant U.S. attorney who had prosecuted the case. So when she’d learned that she needed to be out of her house while the floors dried, she had seized on the opportunity to turn it into a weekend getaway.
Maybe other people would have gone somewhere more distant or exotic than a hotel three miles from home, but all Cameron had cared about was getting an incredibly overpriced but fantastically rejuvenating massage, followed by a tranquil night of R&R, and then in the morning a brunch buffet (again incredibly overpriced) where she could stuff herself to the point where she remembered why she made it a general habit to stay away from brunch buffets. And the perfect place for that was the Peninsula.
Or so she had thought.
“Such a big, bad man! Right there, oh yeah—right there, don’t stop!”
The pillow over her head did nothing to drown out the woman’s voice. Cameron closed her eyes in a silent plea. Dear Mr. Big and Bad: Whatever the hell you’re doing, don’t you move from that spot until you get the job done. She hadn’t prayed so hard for an orgasm since the first—and last—time she’d slept with Jim, the corporate wine buyer/artist who wanted to “find his way” but who didn’t seem to have a clue how to find his way around the key parts of the female body.
The moaning that had started around 1:30 A.M. was what had woken her up. In her groggy state, her first thought had been that someone in the room next door was sick. But quickly following those moans had been a second person’s moans, and then came the panting and the wall-banging and the hollering and then that part that sounded suspiciously like a butt cheek being spanked, and somewhere around that point she had clued into the true goings-on of room 1308.
WhaMA-WhaMA-WhaMA-WhaMA-WhaMA-WhaMA . . .
The bed in the room next door increased its tempo against the wall, and the squeaking of the mattress reached a new, feverish pitch. Despite her annoyance, Cameron had to give the guy credit, whoever he was, for having some serious staying power. Perhaps it was one of those Viagra situations, she mused. She had heard somewhere that one little pill could get a man up and running for over four hours.
She yanked the pillow off her head and peered through the darkness at the clock on the nightstand next to the bed: 3:17. If she had to endure another two hours and fifteen minutes of this stuff, she just might have to kill someone—starting with the front desk clerk who had put her in this room in the first place. Weren’t hotels supposed to skip the thirteenth floor, anyway? Right now she was wishing she was a more superstitious person and had asked to be assigned another room.
In fact, right now she was wishing she’d never come up with the whole weekend getaway idea and instead had just spent the night at Collin’s or Amy’s. At least then she’d be asleep instead of listening to the cacophonous symphony of grunting and squealing—oh yes, the girl was actually squealing now—that was the current soundtrack of her life. Plus, Collin made a mean cheddar and tomato egg-white omelet that, while likely not quite the equivalent of the delicacies one might find at the Peninsula buffet, would’ve reminded her why she’d made it a general habit to let him do all the cooking when the three of them lived together their senior year of college.
Wheewammawamma-BAM! Wheewammawamma-BAM!
Cameron sat up in bed and looked at the phone on the nightstand. She didn’t want to be that kind of guest that complained about ever
y little blemish in the hotel’s five-star service. But the noise from the room next door had been going on for a long time now and at a certain point, she felt as though she was entitled to some sleep in her nearly four – hundred-dollar-per-night room. The only reason the hotel hadn’t already received complaints, she guessed, was due to the fact that 1308 was a corner room with no one on the other side.
Cameron was just about to pick up the phone to call the front desk when, suddenly, she heard the man next door call out the glorious sounds of her salvation.
Smack! Smack!
“Oh shit, I’m cooommmminnggg!”
A loud groan. And then—
Blessed silence. Finally.
Cameron fell back onto the bed. Thank you, thank you, Peninsula hotel gods, for granting me this tiny reprieve. I shall never again call your massages incredibly overpriced. Even if we all know it doesn’t cost $195 to rub lotion on someone’s back. Just saying.
She crawled under the covers and pulled the cream down duvet up to her chin. Her head sank into the pillows and she lay there for a few minutes as she began to drift off. Then she heard another noise next door—the sound of the door shutting.
Cameron tensed.
And then—
Nothing.
All remained blissfully still and silent, and her final thought before she fell asleep was on the significance of the sound of the door shutting.
She had a sneaking suspicion that somebody had just received a five-star booty call.
* * *
BAM!
Cameron shot up in bed, the sound from next door waking her right out of her sleep. She heard muffled squealing and the bed slammed against the wall again—harder and louder than ever—as if its occupants were really going at it this time.
She looked at the clock: 4:08. She’d been given a whopping thirty-minute reprieve.
Not wasting another moment—frankly, she’d already given these jokers far too much of her valuable sleep time—she reached over and turned on the lamp next to the bed. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the sudden burst of light. Then she grabbed the phone off the nightstand and dialed.
After one ring, a man answered pleasantly on the other end. “Good evening, Ms. Lynde. Thank you for calling Guest Services—how may we be of assistance?”
Cameron cleared her throat, her voice still hoarse as her words tumbled out. “Look, I don’t want to be a jerk about this, but you guys have got to do something about the people in room 1308. They keep banging against the wall; there’s been all sorts of moaning and shouting and spanking and it’s been going on for, like, the last two hours. I’ve barely slept this entire night and it sounds like they’re gearing up for round twenty or whatever, which is great for them but not so much for me, and I’m kind of at the point where enough is enough, you know?”
The voice on the other end was wholly unfazed, as if Guest Services at the Peninsula handled the fallout from five-star booty calls all the time.
“Of course, Ms. Lynde. I apologize for the inconvenience. I’ll send up security to take care of the problem right away.”
“Thanks,” Cameron grumbled, not yet willing to be pacified that easily. She planned to speak to the manager in the morning, but for now all she wanted was a quiet room and some sleep.
She hung up the phone and waited. A few moments passed, then she glanced at the wall behind the bed. Things had fallen strangely silent in room 1308. She wondered if the occupants had heard her calling Guest Services to complain. Sure, the walls were thin (as she definitely had discovered firsthand), but were they that thin?
She heard the door to room 1308 open.
The bastards were making their escape.
Cameron flew out of bed and ran to her door, determined to at least get a look at the sex fiends. She pressed against the door and peered through the peephole just as the door to the other room shut. For a brief moment, she saw no one. Then—
A man stepped into view.
He moved quickly, appearing slightly distorted through the peephole. He had his back toward her as he passed by her room, so Cameron didn’t get the greatest look. She didn’t know what the typical sex fiend looked like, but this particular one was on the taller side and stylish in his jeans, black corduroy blazer, and gray hooded T-shirt. He wore the hood pulled up, which was kind of unusual. As the man crossed the hallway and pushed open the door to the stairwell, something struck her as oddly familiar. But then he disappeared into the stairwell before she could place it.
Cameron pulled away from the door. Something very strange was going on in room 1308 . . . Maybe the man had fled the scene because he’d heard her call Guest Services and was abandoning his partner to deal with the fallout alone. A married man, perhaps? Regardless, the woman in 1308 was going to have some serious ’splaining to do once hotel security arrived. Cameron figured—since she already was awake, that is—that she might as well just sit it out right there at the peephole and catch the final act. Not that she was eavesdropping or anything, but . . . okay, she was eavesdropping.
She didn’t have to wait long. Two men dressed in suits, presumably hotel security, arrived within the next minute and knocked on the door to 1308. Cameron watched through the peephole as the security guards stared expectantly at the door, then shrugged at each other when there was no answer.
“Should we try again?” the shorter security guard asked.
The second guy nodded and knocked on the door. “Hotel security,” he called out.
No response.
“Are you sure this is the right room?” asked the second guy.
The first guy checked the room number, then nodded. “Yep. The person who complained said the noise was coming from room 1308.”
He glanced over at Cameron’s room. She took a step back as if they could see her through the door. She suddenly felt very aware of the fact that she was wearing only her University of Michigan T-shirt and underwear.
There was a pause.
“Well, I don’t hear a thing now,” Cameron heard the first guy say. He banged on the door a third time, louder still. “Security! Open up!”
Still nothing.
Cameron moved back to the door and looked out the peephole once again. She saw the security guards exchange looks of annoyance.
“They’re probably in the shower,” said the shorter guy.
“Probably going at it again,” the other one agreed.
The two men pressed their ears to the door. On her side of the door, Cameron listened for any sound of a shower running in the next room but heard nothing.
The taller security guard sighed. “You know the protocol—we have to go in.” Out of his pocket he pulled what presumably was some sort of master key card. He slid it into the lock and cracked open the door.
“Hello? Hotel security—anyone in here?” he called into the room.
He looked over his shoulder at his partner and shook his head. Nothing. He stepped farther in and gestured for the second guy to follow. Both men disappeared into the room, out of Cameron’s view, and the door slammed shut behind them.
There was a momentary pause, then Cameron heard one of the security men cry out through the adjoining wall.
“Holy shit!”
Her stomach dropped. She knew then that whatever had happened in 1308, it wasn’t good. Uncertain what she should do, she pressed her ear to the wall and listened.
“Try CPR while I call 9-1-1!” one of the men shouted.
Cameron flew off the bed—she knew CPR—and raced to the door. She threw it open just as the shorter security guy was running out of 1308.
Seeing her, he held up his hand, indicating she should stop right where she was. “Ma’am—please get back in your room.”
“But I heard—I thought I could help, I—”
“We’ve got it covered, ma’am. Now please step back into your room.” He rushed off.
Per the security’s guard order, Cameron remained in her doorway. She looked around and saw that oth
er people in the nearby rooms had heard the commotion and were peering into the hallway with mixed expressions of trepidation and curiosity.
After what seemed like forever but what was probably only minutes, the shorter guy returned leading a pair of paramedics pulling a gurney.
As the trio raced past Cameron, she overheard the security guard explaining the situation. “We found her lying there on the bed . . . She was nonresponsive so we began CPR but it doesn’t look good . . .”
By this time, additional staff had arrived on the scene, and a woman in a gray suit identified herself as the hotel manager and asked everyone to remain in their rooms. Cameron overheard her tell the other members of the staff to keep the hallway and elevator bank clear. The thirteenth floor guests spoke amongst themselves in low murmurs, and Cameron caught snippets of conversations as a guest from one room would ask another if he or she knew what was happening.
A hush fell over the crowd when the paramedics reappeared in the doorway of room 1308. They moved quickly, pulling the gurney out into the hall.
This time, there was a person on that gurney.
As they hurried past Cameron, she caught a glimpse of the person—a quick glimpse, but enough to see that it was a woman, and also enough to see that she had long red hair that fanned out in stark contrast to the white of both the sheet on the gurney and the hotel bathrobe she wore. And, she saw enough to see that the woman wasn’t moving.
While one of the paramedics pushed the gurney, the other ran alongside it, pumping oxygen through a handheld mask that covered the woman’s face. The two security guards raced ahead of the paramedics, making sure the hallway was clear. Cameron—and apparently several of the other hotel guests as well—overheard the shorter guard saying something to the other about the police being on their way.
At the mention of the police, a minor commotion broke out. The hotel guests demanded to know what was happening.
The manager spoke above the fray. “I certainly understand that all of you have concerns, and I offer you our sincerest apologies for the disturbance.” She addressed them in a calm, genteel tone that was remarkably similar to that of the man from Guest Services who Cameron had spoken on the phone with earlier. She wondered if they all talked that way to each other when no customers were around, or if they dropped the charm routine and that vague, quasi-European-even-though-I’m-from-Wisconsin accent the minute they hit the lunchroom.