Leah moves over to the bed and takes a seat beside me. “That’s really good to hear.”
The look in her eyes is one of relief. It makes me feel terrible to see it there. Relief should be a good thing but it’s a reminder of the worry I’ve seen on her face before—and on everyone in my family, to be exact.
I wave my hands in front of me, wiping the air to change the tone. “Change of subject. This guy walked in on me. He was beyond pissed I was even in there, let alone playing on what had to be the world’s most beautiful Steinway. I mean, it was ebony and had to have been a model D—” The look on Leah’s face lets me know I’ve totally lost her. “Anyway, apparently it’s Devon’s private room that no one is supposed to be in.”
“No shit,” Leah says.
“Yes. And of course the guy was totally intimidating and I was a total mess.”
“Was he hot?” she asks.
I lean back. “Excuse me?”
“He was hot,” she concludes, nodding her head and pointing her finger at me. “You have your I-just-saw-a-hot-guy face on right now. How hot was he?”
I push her away from me and she falls back on the bed. “Shut it. He was not hot.”
“Liar.” She says with a laugh.
I look down at my slipper. “Fine. He was . . . cute.”
Leah shoots up from her spot on the bed. “I knew it!”
With both hands, I run my fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face. “Not the point. Devon is totally mad right now and probably isn’t going to help us.”
Leah calms down and takes in the gravity of what I’m saying. “God, that sucks. But the guy was super hot, right?”
“You have a one-track mind.”
She gives me a full-teeth, wicked smile and I push her back onto the bed. She continues to prod me with uncomfortable questions about what the guy looked like and I answer them, grateful she doesn’t want to discuss how I was playing the piano.
Her current fit of giggles is interrupted by a knock at the door. We both sit up straight and look over at the source of the knocking. We play one quick and silent round of rock, paper, scissors to decide who should get it. I lose.
I open the door and am taken back by the large figure standing in the doorway holding our folded, dried clothes. Devon.
“Your clothes are dry,” he says, handing the garments to me. They’re still warm and have that fresh dryer smell. “Your passports will be ready for you tomorrow. I’ll have one of the crew pick them up for you. Were you planning on leaving before then?”
I swallow back my surprise that he is still helping us. “Um, no. We’ll be here through the end of the week.”
Devon nods and hands the garments to me. I take them.
He pauses for a second in the doorway, seeming unsure as what to do next. My free hand is on the door, anxious to close it and get back to getting the hell out of here.
Devon’s hand hovers over his pocket for a moment before reaching in and pulling out an envelope.
“This is for you.”
Confused, I release my hand from the door and reach out to take the envelope. “For me? I can’t imagine what . . .”
Christ on crutches.
My thumb pushes open the top fold of the paper as my eyes skim through the inside of the envelope. There has to be a hundred different bills in here, all of various amounts. Off the top of my head I would say Devon just handed me an envelope filled with five thousand euro.
No sooner is the money in my hand than I am forcing it back into Devon’s.
“Absolutely not. I can not accept money from you.” Sure, he has tons of it, but to just throw it at me like a two-bit hooker? Well, maybe that’s a little of an exaggeration. I didn’t sleep with him. Unless he thinks . . . “You must have the wrong idea. Thank you for the help with the passports”—I hold up the clothes in my arm—“thank you for your dryer, but my sister and I would like to head back to shore, please.”