Roman Holiday

chapter Fourteen

"Home sweet home." Roman puts the Rabbit in park in front of the main breezeway. "Do you want me to walk you to your door? Fend off some more po-po for you?"

I roll my eyes and kick open the broken back door. "I think I can handle it."

"You sure?" he calls out of his window.

"I'm pretty sure. I don't think I'll get lost."

"...But there's still a possibility?"

I climb the steps to the breezeway and turn back to the car. "Goodnight, Roman. Boaz," I add when Boaz sticks out his bottom lip.

"'Night!" the boys call at the same time. "See you at my concert tomorrow!" Boaz adds, waving out of the window, and I return it.

Goof.

I stand in the lip of the breezeway until the Rabbit pulls around through the parking lot and turns left onto Ocean Boulevard. Which interstate motel are they staying in, I wonder? How far away? How cruddy? It's almost laughable, if you didn't have a heart, to compare where Roman Holiday was to where they are now—disappearing from motel to motel like ghosts.

I summon the elevator. The light blinks down the floors slowly. I inspect the dirt under my fingernails and the scrape on my palm from the fence. I didn't realize I even cut myself, and I don't think the condo has a med kit. I'm sure the main office does. It's one-thirty in the morning. Maybe the night auditor can help me.

I turn down the breezeway toward the main office, inspecting my elbows and arms to make sure I don't have any more permanent scarring. What was I thinking? Trespassing in a put-put course?

So hardcore.

"Maggie should be proud of me," I mutter. "I must've been batshit crazy tonight."

I stop just before the door to the front office flies open and step aside to let a tall, dark-haired man pass. He scowls at me, and I'm surprised he doesn't recognize me from the stop-n-shop. I slip into the office, glancing back at the weird man. That can't be a coincidence.

The poor night auditor looks exactly how I feel. He's a tall and gangly guy with a scruff of blond hair of his chin and a buzzed head. College kid, probably, unlucky enough to work at CherryTree. He gives me a wary once-over. "Can I help you?"

"What was that guy's problem?" I thumb over my shoulder in the direction the man went.

"Wanted to know what room someone rented," he replied exasperatedly. "I can't tell people that—you don't want to know either, do you?"

"Nah." I show him my hand, and add in my worst Cockney accent, "Just need a fixin', doctor."

He wilts with relief. "That I can do." He stoops down and pulls out a small First-Aid kit. I rub a little Neosporin on my cut before wrapping a bandage over it. "Anything else? Towels? Toilet paper?"

"Do you have any of that hazelnut coffee from last year?"

"I think you're in luck..." He disappears into the back and comes out with three packets—enough to last me until Saturday.

Thank God.

I take them hungrily and hold them to my chest. "You are a godsend. Have a great rest of the night, and I hope that weird guy doesn't come back. Who was he looking for?"

He shrugs. "Some girl named Junie Baltimore." I freeze the moment before I start to turn out of the office. "You know her?"

"...Nope." I force a smile and quickly push out of the doors, hazelnut coffee clamped tightly to my chest.

Why would someone be looking for me? My first thought is, of course, the police—but he didn't look like police, or even a detective. My second thought comes to the only other sane conclusion I can think of. Why he was at the stop-and-shop. Why Roman hid us behind the clothes turnstile. Why he'd want to know my condo number.

Paparazzi.