Chapter 8 Never expected to be this good

No I don’t. I have a fucking gorgeous man who knows how to take me to heaven, speaking of my mystery man it seems he didn’t show up last night.

Great, now I’m arguing with myself.

My phone beeps a text in my bag. It’s from Terry; she’d already left for work this morning before I’d even rolled out of bed. I have no clue how she’d managed it.

I open the text up:

Breathe. It’ll be fine. You’ll be talking stories from when you were a kid he carried around before you know it :) Call me when you’re done. Love you

I drop my phone back in my bag, glancing up I see I’ve reached. I drop my empty cup in the nearest bin, take my thin jacket off, and shove it into my oversized bag.

I’m wearing my black skater skirt, loose fitting grey T shirt belted at the waist, and my favourite high heeled, grey suede ankle boots. Not too flashy, not too casual, and I feel comfortable in them. They’re me. And right now I just need to feel comfortable.

I stare up at the towering hotel.

Okay, I can do this.

I take a deep breath in and walk toward the door.

The concierge opens it for me, and I find myself in the plush foyer.

I instantly feel out of place. Maybe I should have dressed a little more conservatively.

But this is how I always dress for work, and when I interview celebrities, but then I’ve never interviewed anyone as famous as Natte, or one that I used to play kiss chase with when I was five either.

Oh God. I am so totally shitting myself. And so totally out of my depth here.

I run my hands nervously down my skirt.

No, I can do this.

I lift my head high and walk toward the reception desk.

The woman on the reception is very attractive, in that groomed kind of way I’ll never be able to achieve.

She looks up at me.

“Hi,” I say, trying to exude confidence I am not feeling. “My name is Golden Shiva, I’m here to see Natte Johnson.”

She smiles. It’s not real. “Of course you are. And I imagine he’s expecting you too.”

Ahh. Right okay. She’s being a bitch. She thinks I’m a groupie.

I reach into my bag and pull out my Alpine Resort ID badge and slap it on the counter.

“I’m a freelancer. I work for Alpine Etiquette and live stay and I’m here to do an interview with Natte Johnson.”

She glances at me again, her eyes already narrowed, then picks the phone up and dials a number.

“Good morning. There’s a Golden Shiva in reception to see Mr. Johnson… right… yes, of course.”

She hangs the phone up.

“Please take the lift up to the roof suites, one of Mr. Johnson’s staff will meet you up there.”

I pick my badge up and walk away without thanking her. It kills my inbred manners to do so, but she was mean to me.

I just don’t understand snotty bitches like that. Do I look like a groupie?

God, I hope not. I stop and glance at myself in the mirror on the way to the lifts.

My hair’s frizzed up a bit with the humid morning air. I try to smooth it down with my hand as I run my eyes down myself in the mirror.

Well, I don’t think I look like a groupie. I look like an über professional freelancer, in my… um… skater skirt, which is actually quite short, has it always been this short or has my ass got bigger?

Oh holy crap. I look exactly like a groupie.

I don’t remember looking like this in the mirror this morning. Obviously, I still had my Shiv looks awesome in anything margarita goggles still on.

Fan fucking tastic. I haven’t seen Natte in twelve years and I’m going to see him looking like some groupie chick in a desperately short skirt.

Good thinking, Shiv. Get hammered the night before seeing Natte, then dress like you’re here for a party.

Resigned to my groupie fate, I stand at the lifts and press the button.

In a few minutes I’m going to be face to face with him. I can’t stop my hands from trembling a little.

The lift pings open.

It’s empty, so I wander in and with my still trembling hand, press the button for the top floor to take me up to the roof suites.

I stand there, my foot jigging on the spot, fingers knotted together, counting the floors up. My stomach’s popping the higher the number on the counter gets.

The lift reaches the top floor, stopping smoothly and the doors part.

There on the other side is a scarily huge guy. Closely shaved hair, and at least six and a half feet tall, and about the same wide.

“Ms. Shiva?” he says in the deepest voice I’ve ever heard.

“Yes.” My voice comes out in a squeak.

He smiles at me. I relax a little.

“I’m Dave, the head of Natte’s security team. Please follow me.”

Natte has a security team?

Duh. Of course he does.

I follow closely behind Dave. There doesn’t seem to be any people around. The rooms must be huge as we’ve only passed by one door on this hallway and we’ve been walking a little while. I wonder if Natte has the full floor hired out for his people to stay in.

He comes over to me. Each stride he takes closer, my heart whams against my ribcage.

Then he stops in front of me, only inches away.

Holy crap, he’s even more beautiful close up. And he’s so much taller now than I remember, but then he was thirty the last time I saw him in the flesh. He looks even better than he does on TV.

Wow, he really has grown up.

We reach the door facing us at the end of the hall. Dave knocks once, loudly, on the door and moves aside, standing by the door, leaning against the wall, leaving me standing in front of it on my own.

I’m instantly self conscious. And my face is burning up with worry and nerves.

What if Natte really doesn’t remember me and then it just becomes embarrassing and horrid?

Right here and now I’m making the decision to not say anything about our childhood or even acknowledge I remember him. I’ll just wait for him to say something first and then I’ll act all cool and nonchalant about it. And if he doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t remember me, then it’s cool as I won’t look like an idiot explaining who I am.

Or not.

Whatever.

I’m just not saying anything first.