Room One Hundred and Eleven (Bred By Billionaires)

2. Poppy

CHAPTER 2

Poppy

I t’s beautiful here.

Or I’m easily impressed. After growing up in Vegas, a city like Seattle seems so…genuine.

Striking without relying on gimmicks or too much flash.

Then again, everything seems special after a ride on my bosses’ private jet and the limo waiting on the tarmac to shuttle me to the Centennial, a forty-two-story building where Club Sin occupies the top six floors. I’m being put up for the weekend in a condo in the same building and have arrived a few hours before my assignment starts this evening to settle in.

My eyes are drawn to the Space Needle as the limo winds from the airport to downtown. It’s familiar yet different as I’m assuming Club Sin will be too.

Soon enough we’re pulling up to a steel and glass tower. The car has barely rolled to a stop when a valet opens my door and offers his hand to help me out. “Ma’am.”

In this summer dress that Riley and Melody picked out, he doesn’t mistake me for help the way most people do when I’m walking around in scrubs.

My uniform does have the benefit of making me feel invisible sometimes. Right now, it seems like everyone is looking at me. Hopefully, it’s not obvious that I don’t belong.

“Welcome.” He smiles as he rounds to the trunk and takes my brand-new suitcase full of brand-new stuff Riley and Melody loaded it up with from the driver. He lifts it as if it weighs nothing and stacks it on a luggage trolley. “Let me show you to the front desk, Ms. Daily. Then we’ll bring your bag right up to you.”

They know who I am?

Keep cool. This is fine.

It’s odd to let go of the fancy belongings I just got. Everything I have for the weekend. But I guess that’s how rich people do things. Without concern for stuff you can easily replace if it’s lost or stolen.

So I follow him through the huge gold revolving door and to the marble counter where several people are prepared to assist visitors however they can. It’s a far cry from searching high and low for a customer support phone number on a website without luck.

I’m never waited on like this.

I could get used to it. Best if I don’t, though.

The lobby is gorgeous. At least from what I glimpse in my peripheral vision. I refuse to gawk at the gilded mirrors, potted palms, and architectural details that include two curved ramps leading up to a sitting area removed from the street.

The doorman introduces me to a woman behind the counter by name. She types away, her manicured nails clicking on the keyboard, before retrieving a metal keycard from a drawer. No plastic disposables for this place.

Politely, I look away from one of the bellman’s young, hyper-fit assistants who seems to be struggling with the wheel of the luggage cart or maybe a bump in the burgundy rug beneath it as he tows it up to the main lobby level.

The woman assisting me finishes whatever she has to do in the reservation system. She’s explaining the layout of the building—from the bank of elevators at the top of the ramps to the lounge area where I’ll enter Club Sin—and how to access the reserved floors with my shiny new card when someone shouts, “Look out!”

I spin around in time to see the fully loaded bellman’s cart careening down the ramp, picking up speed as it heads straight for me.

The woman at the counter gasps and ducks for shelter behind the desk.

There’s nowhere for me to go and not enough time to evade the runaway trolley.

My vision tunnels on impending disaster. Smooshed before I’ve even gotten to second base, never mind made love. Figures.

I knew it was too good to be true .

So I don’t see my savior coming.

His arms wrap around me as he tackles me, diving to the side, carrying me with him as if we’re in a game of football I didn’t know I was playing.

In mid-air, he’s spinning, positioning himself between me and the oncoming danger.

By the time the out-of-control cart whizzes behind us, only his calf and one foot are left in the path of the heavy battering ram that would have obliterated me otherwise.

His leg takes the brunt of the force from the cart, diverting it off course.

Turning sideways, it topples. Luggage spills around us.

The stranger shelters me as it rains down. He grunts—and in the background another man curses—as the handle of a suitcase clips my savior’s cheek.

Dazed, it takes a few seconds to realize I can’t speak because I got the wind knocked out of me.

Two other men in suits start digging a trench through the wreckage. One of them barks, “Son of a bitch, that was close.”

No kidding. The memory of the breeze rustling my hair as the trolley zipped past sends shivers up my spine.

When we’re they reach us, the older of the two crouches by our sides. “Get up, Aiden. You’re smothering that poor girl.”

Was he? Maybe, but I don’t mind.

The guys help him sit up and lift his weight off me.

Too bad. He was so warm, and he made me feel so safe.

“You okay?” my rescuer asks in a gravelly voice. Is it always that rough or is he shaken up too?

My lungs fill in a whoosh. It takes a few gasps before I can speak again.

By then all three of them are edging in closer, concern spreading across their faces.

“Yes. Thanks,” I murmur as I blink up at him. “Will be in a minute.”

Only then do I realize two things.

First, my savior is handsome as hell.

Second, he’s bleeding.