Lavender Haze

Chapter 11

Today we are location scouting. Without Mila. Because, at least according to her Instagram (yes, I stalk her daily), she is in France to commission her wedding dress. Dior is rumoured to be in charge of creating an exquisite gown for Mila, and am I a little jealous? Why would I ever? Did the snapshots she posted this morning of her walk down the Champs-Élysées turned me green with envy? Absolutely not. Why would I ever care? She's only living my dream.

I meet River at his hotel, and when I say I meet River, I mean I meet Wes and Ambrose. Ambrose has recently won the prize for most obnoxious human being in the State (or at least, he behaves like he has), beating even River, and that's all I'm going to say about him. Westley, on the other hand, has grown on me, probably because he's always bringing me free coffees or because not a single bone in his body is mean. He's always smiling, polite, kind. He never once called me a smartass. Sure, I'm not usually a smartass with him, so that might be a reason why.

As I wait for River to be done with his meeting, I pace the lobby. Thankfully, Ambrose dismissed himself after mansplaining the schedule I emailed to him myself, so my exposure to him is minimal today (that's for the best if he wants to remain alive and I don't want to go to jail for murder). That's when Wes appears with my to-go cup. This has become somewhat of a routine. Every time I meet River or Mila at the hotel, Wes hooks me up with a coffee cup to go. This is the ninth time I abuse of his generosity.

"Here," he says, thrusting the warm cup in my hands and smiling.

I take a deep inhale of my coffee. "Wes," I say, shaking my head sadly. "Can I confess a secret to you?"

Westley's interest piques. "Of course. I'm a professional secret keeper. You have to be, with the things you see around here."

Now my interest is piqued. This hotel is notoriously brimming with rockstars and movie starlets and TV producers and whoever else. The things that must go behind these closed ivory doors. I'd love to know all the dirty secrets the staff of the St. James Hotel in Soho has to keep, but I'm assuming Wes is not the man to ask. He seems like a rule-follower, law-abiding citizen. I'm pretty sure if I want some gossip, I need to ask Katrina, the redhead concierge who's already spilled about that one time she met Matt Damon when he was a guest.

I look at my cup and frown. "It's so lovely that you always get me coffee. But it's time to be honest. I don't really drink decaf? I mean, this is amazing, so of course I've been injecting it straight into my veins once I'm out of sight, but I feel like I'm living a lie."

Wes's laugh bubbles out of him. He has a nice laugh, booming and musical. He's probably someone who laughs a lot. I'm sure his YouTube homepage is full of videos of kittens befriending squirrels and whatnot.

"Oh." He outstretches his hand. "You should have said immediately. What would you like?"

I return the cup. "Sure. I should have been like, hey Wes, you know the free coffee I always get when I'm around? Well, that's not good enough. You'll have to do better." I shake my head disapprovingly. "Talk about champagne problems. I'm a spoiled brat. I apologize."

Wes smiles. "Nonsense. What can I get you?"

"A mocha would probably, permanently reshape my eyes into oversized hearts, like a living, breathing, too-tall cartoon."

"A mocha will be coming right up, then."

"Thank you, Wes. I am forever in your debt."

As Wes trails away with my decaf, I pad to the concierge desk, where Katrina is busy staring at her reflection on the screen of her phone.

"Most insane person to walk through these doors," I say, like a game show host interrogating her contestant.

Katrina looks away from her phone, her eyes glinting. She wants to play this game so bad. "Too many. I'm going to need a minute to narrow it down." The unfiltered joy she experienced at my request wilts as she looks behind my back, to the elevators bank. "Oh, shit." She straightens up rapidly, flinging her phone out of sight, and I hear her neck crick in response of the sudden change in posture.