Chapter 2

I let myself breathe a sigh of relief once she'd gone, relishing the moment of silence that descended upon my surroundings.

I loved my sister to bits, especially since she was probably the kindest and most caring twelve-year-old in existence, but really, there was only so much Dalton Coleman I could take before requiring a breather, for sanity's sake.

The thought had barely had a chance to scuttle across my mind before the tinkling of the overhead bell pulled me back into reality; it was shortly followed by the pounding of urgent footsteps on the wood panelling.

I looked up in time to catch sight of the figure already halfway across the room, closing in on me with peculiar speed.

He was tall: that much I could gather straight off, especially noticing the slightly clumsy way his steps fell into place.

Flaunting a blatant disregard for the temperature, the boy had a beanie pulled down over his head, only a few stray wisps of blonde escaping from beneath the fabric, and dark sunglasses that completely obscured his facial features.

He was panting when he reached the desk, hands stretching out to grip the wooden edge, steadying himself.

"Um," I began, subconsciously reaching up to adjust the name badge pinned on my shirt, "can I help you?"

"I need a room," he breathed.

Beginnings and endings of each word blending into one another, his speech was an incomprehensible stream that proved difficult to follow.

I straightened a little in my seat, already assuming my air of professional poise that I'd refined over many summers of practice.

"Have you made a reservation?

I'll just need to take your booking number and your last name so that I can—"

"I don't have a reservation.

I just need a room.

Right now.

It's, uh..." He glanced over his shoulder, looking back at the closed door in a manner that oozed paranoia.

"It's really urgent."

"I'm afraid we don't have any rooms available at the minute," I said, my tone clipped and polished like I'd practiced: the same for every guest.

"It's the first week of summer, and therefore our busiest time of the year.

All of our rooms booked up weeks in advance.

I'm afraid you'll have to try—"

"You don't understand."

I stopped, surprised.

"Sorry?"

"Look, I'm sorry, but youreallydon't understand," he repeated, a detectable sense of urgency leaking into his exasperated tone.

He looked about to run a hand through his hair, before remembering it was hidden beneath his hat, his arm dropping back to his side.

"I'm desperate here.

I know it's a really long shot, but could you just check your computer or something?

There's got to besomethingyou can do for me here."

"I really don't think—"

"Please?"

Now, I paused, feeling myself under an inexplicable scrutiny, even though the eyes of the boy remained hidden behind dark lenses.

"Okay.

I'll check."

Hands moving swiftly over the keyboard, I tapped into the usual database: the central hub for all our reservations and current vacancies.

My little finger hit the enter key, and I waited for the bold message to materialise across the screen, to confirm my well-informed suspicions that there were, in fact, no rooms available.

When it didn't, I found myself frowning, leaning closer to the screen in an attempt to pinpoint the details of the change.

"Anything?" he pressed, leaning into the desk.

Thenohad been balanced on my tongue, ready to precede my professional apology: the one that reeled off as easily as flicking a switch.

Yet now I swallowed over it, peering at the computer.

"Actually, it seems we've had a cancellation," I told him.

"It says here that the Sunset Suite is now available.

Still, you should probably be aware that that particular suite is our newest and most spacious, and so naturally you'll find its nightly rates are significantly—"

"I'll take it."

"Sorry?"

"I said I'll take it." He was already fumbling in his pockets, extracting a black leather wallet and rifling through its many compartments.

Seconds later, a credit card had been thrust across the desk, skimming the polished surface before skidding to a halt in front of me.

"Just take it.

Charge whatever you need to.

Now where do I sign?"

I felt as if I should say something, to extend what had been a remarkably short conversation for somebody who'd just booked the most expensive suite in the entire hotel, let alone at a moment's notice.

But I couldn't find the words in my mouth, instead silently removing the check-in book from behind the counter, sliding it over to him with the pen I always kept handy behind my ear.

I watched his scrawl take messy form on the paper, the pen obeying each of his hand's juddering movements, the letters of his signature stretching right outside the allocated box.

A few drops of stray ink splattered across the page as he dropped the pen, looking up at me with a restlessly expectant expression.

"So, uh... your key, I guess."

I winced internally at the hesitance that plagued my tone as I turned my back on the stranger, reaching up for the key labelledSunset Suite.The key ring attached was light: a fake silver finish, moulded to the shape of an anchor.

Running a finger over its surface, I was struck by an odd sense of reluctance: a doubt as to whether I should even hand it over at all.

But when I turned to face the boy, he was biting his lip, shifting his weight on the balls of his feet in a stance of pure restlessness.

And in that moment, I found myself compelled to hand it over.

"Here," I told him, as the cool metal exchanged hands, "enjoy your stay.

If you bear with me one second, I'll just show you to your—"

"No need!" he interrupted briskly, feet already starting to carry him in the opposite direction.

"I'm sure I can find it myself!

Sunset Suite, right?"

It was only when he reached the door, one hand already on the handle, that he paused, eventually turning back to shoot me a smile I could tell was genuine, even beneath his sunglasses.

"Oh, and thanks.

I really appreciate this."

By the time he'd disappeared, the sound of the lift doors sliding smoothly open creeping in from the corridor, I couldn't help myself.

Succumbing to temptation, I cracked open the check-in book to the page he'd scribbled on, leaning in closer to inspect the letters of his hurried scrawl.

Brian Fields,it read.

As I closed the book, I found myself testing the name out in my head, drawing out the syllables for much longer than necessary.Funny,I thought, as I slotted the book back into its position on the shelf,he didn't look much like a Brian.

And even when Matilda made a bounding reappearance into reception, having completed the errand for room twenty-five, humming the tune of a Dalton Coleman song I was ashamed to say I recognised, I couldn't seem to put the Sunset Suite's newest guest out of my mind.