Fake Married to My Billionaire CEO novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Front Desk

Dean checks into her own hotel on her stolen money while her husband waits at the staff door. His suite key has a number that matters.

I got to the desk at 11:20 in my uniform, with a husband I wasn't supposed to understand.

Rafferty had said he'd "run an errand" and then followed my car in a borrowed van with a catering company's name on the door.

I pretended not to notice.

The lobby of the Wexley Las Vegas is two stories of marble and one very large chandelier.

My manager, a tired man with a bald spot and a headset, leaned over my station.

"You look like you got married," he said.

"I did."

"Congratulations. The guy's not from the casino, is he?"

"He drives a catering van."

"Good," he said, with feeling. "Don't date the casino."

I worked the desk for forty minutes, and I was almost calm.

At noon sharp, the revolving door turned and Dean came through it.

He still had the gold watch on.

The woman in the green dress had traded it for white linen, and a bellhop pushed a cart of her luggage behind them.

Eleven pieces.

"Hey, Lace," Dean said.

He put both elbows on my counter.

"We have a reservation under Novachek."

I typed his name with fingers that had gone cold.

"I can't believe you booked here," I said quietly.

"Why wouldn't I? Best hotel in the city." He smiled.

"And I have to say the staff discount is a nice touch. Your name opened a few doors."

"You used my employee code?"

"You gave it to me, babe."

I had given him my code in March, so he could book my mother a room for her birthday.

My manager had stopped pretending to read a schedule.

Three bellhops, two girls from housekeeping and a man polishing the chandelier base had all gone silent in the same breath.

They knew, of course.

Everyone at the Wexley knew by noon on a Saturday.

"The suite is forty-one hundred," Dean said. "Penthouse-adjacent. I like to see the strip."

"It's on the forty-first floor," I said, because I couldn't help it.

"Yeah."

"That suite is eleven hundred dollars a night."

"It's already paid for."

"By whom?"

He smiled slowly and tapped the screen of the card reader.

"By you, Lace."

I wanted to reach across the desk and put his gold watch somewhere very uncomfortable.

Instead I took a breath and slid his key card across the marble.

"Enjoy your stay, Mr. Novachek."

"Mrs. Wexley will see to anything you need," a voice said from the end of the counter.

I looked over.

Rafferty had come in by the staff door with a stainless steel catering tray in his hands.

He wore his gray jacket, a paper name tag and the expression of a man delivering lunch.

My manager turned so fast the headset slid off his ear.

"Mr. Wex," he started, and stopped.

He looked at the tray.

He looked at Rafferty.

He looked at me.

"Sandwiches," he said finally, in a strangled voice. "For the, uh, front desk. Right on time."

"Right on time," Rafferty agreed.

He set the tray down at the end of my counter and didn't look at the manager again.

Dean was looking at him with a crooked grin.

"Oh, this is the husband? The van guy?"

"Rafferty," Rafferty said.

"You really drive that thing?"

"It has a good radio."

"Does it have a back seat, at least?" Dean said, loud enough for the bellhops.

"Because I hear she's used to the back seat of my Camaro."

Nobody laughed.

I felt my hand close around my pen.

Rafferty's face did not change at all.

He leaned an elbow on the counter and spoke very quietly.

"You have a nice suite on forty-one. Enjoy it. You're checking out tomorrow."

"Am I?" Dean said.

"You are."

"Says who? The sandwich guy?"

Rafferty only smiled.

It was a small, unfriendly smile, and I felt it in the back of my neck.

Dean took his key and walked off toward the elevators, trailed by the luggage cart and the woman in white.

The bellhops started breathing again.

My manager picked up the sandwiches, looked at them and carried them to the back without a word.

I turned to Rafferty.

"You need to leave. If the general manager sees you."

"I'll go," he said.

"What did you say to him?"

"Nothing yet."

He reached across the counter, took the pen out of my hand and set it down.

"Your knuckles are white."

"I'm fine."

"I know you are. I'd just rather you didn't break anything of yours over him."

Then he picked his jacket collar straight and walked out the staff door, whistling.

My manager slid back to my station two seconds later.

"Lacey," he said, very low. "Forty-one hundred is the suite directly under the empty floor."

"The what?"

"The owner's floor. Nobody's lived up there in years. Why would your ex pick that room?"

I looked at the elevator doors closing on the lobby.

I did not have an answer, but I thought I knew who had put him there.

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