Welcome to my A to Z Challenge Blog! Like or comment on this post, or vote at the end of the week for your favorites and I’ll continue the top four stories next month! (For details, see my Theme Reveal.) For the second week, my theme is romantic stories. Come back for Week 3 (Anything Goes) or Week 4 (Non-consent). Without further ado, enjoy H is for Hotel.
When I sat down at the hotel bar, I expected to have a drink, get some dinner, and then go back to my room. I did not expect to meet the man of my dreams.
I was on a business trip to Harrisburg, PA. For a capital city, it lacked a lot. There was this very nice section where all the state offices were, and then it went downhill fast. There weren’t a lot of places to eat, and I didn’t want to wander the city by myself. A woman traveling alone was an easy target. Sad, but true. So the hotel restaurant seemed to be the place to be. It was pricey, but my advertising firm would pick up the tab anyway.
“Yes?” I replied.
“There’s a spot at the bar if you would prefer, ma’am.”
I didn’t prefer, really. I would rather a table, but there didn’t seem to be any available, and the host didn’t seem to want to seat me at a table alone anyway. “Fine,” I said, trying to keep the snap out of my voice. I just really hoped I wasn’t bothered by some goon who thought I would be an easy mark. I was conscious of how high the slit on my pencil skirt would go when I sat down on a bar stool. I had been in meetings all day and hadn’t bothered to change out of my suit jacket, dress shirt, skirt, and heels.
It was warm in the restaurant, and I took my jacket off, hanging it on the back of my bar chair. At least it was a chair, and not truly a stool, I reminded myself.
I ordered a drink and sighed deeply as the warmth of the alcohol hit my bloodstream. I couldn’t remember eating lunch, but my day was such a blur, it was possible I had. After a few minutes, I realized that my one drink was affecting more than I preferred to admit. I would be glad when my dinner came.
“What?” I snapped, the alcohol removing the filter I would typically have in public.
“You, uh, dropped your jacket, ma’am.” A rich southern accent sounded over the noise in the bar, as a man leaned down to hand me my jacket. He leaned down. To my bar stool. He towered over me.
“Oh, thank you.” My cheeks warmed from my embarrassment at snapping at him. I imagined the combination of that and the alcohol was making my face very red.
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Goodness, I liked that he called me ma’am. It was sexy as hell. He walked away, and I watched as he sat down a few seats down from me, one couple in between us. I mentally kicked myself for snapping at him earlier. He was handsome. My food came, and I ate, feeling the effects of the alcohol lessen with each bite.
When the couple paid their check and got up from the bar, I was able to study the man. His hair was blonde, almost brunette. I couldn’t see his eyes. His profile was strong and handsome. He was wearing cowboy boots and jeans with a flannel shirt. How typically southern. And that accent. I couldn’t get the accent out of my head. I really didn’t know much about him, but he looked like the man of my dreams.
But the question I had to ask myself was: Is he truly the man of my dreams or is he just a figment of my imagination?
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