Did Someone Order Room Service?:. Charlotte Phillips
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me for five minutes,’ she protested.
He shrugged.
‘Why does that have to be a negative? If you think about it for a moment you’ll see it opens up a world of possibility. There’s no background hangups to get past, no baggage to talk over and get in the way, no irritating friends and family members to get along with. No hoops to jump through. Just you and me. This room. And whatever we want it to be.’
He leaned forward, reached a tentative hand out and stroked a finger gently across her cheek, the lightest of touches which sent sparks of heat flying through her.
OMG Matt Stanton just touched my cheek!
This was exactly the kind of situation her mother had chased since before Layla was born, and now it had simply presented itself to her as if by magic. An unexpected surge of righteous in-your-face defiance caught her by surprise. Dull and boring, was she? Life passing her by? The hottest man in world tennis had just propositioned her without needing so much as a hint of encouragement. She wasn’t even dressed up for Pete’s sake, she was wearing the usual hideous charcoal grey hotel uniform, name badge pinned to her lapel, happy-to-help smile pasted on her face. Not a leather bustier in sight.
Hot on the heels of the defiance came an idea that was so wildly outside her remit that it made her feel dizzy and she held her glass of orange juice tightly in both hands and took a calming sip of it to steady herself.
Her life as it stood at this moment in time wasn’t exactly scaling the dizzy heights of success, was it? Her mother’s parting words gnawed at her pride and self-belief deep down on a base level. Maybe she could have brushed them off if she was holding down some high-flying job and living an upwardly mobile life in a flat of her own, but the fact was, she wasn’t even close. However hard she might try to crush it, there was a tiny bit of her that wondered whether her mother might actually have a point when it came to life. What exactly had twenty four years of striving for respectability got her?
It had been no picnic staking a claim for common sense and normality in the middle of the chaotic one-crazy-minute-at-a-time lifestyle of her mother. Since reaching adulthood the desire for a place of her own had reached dizzying heights, the need for proper roots and security driving her on to work ever longer hours.
And just where exactly had it got her?
For the first time she could remember, looking into the melting brown eyes full of suggestion, with the day becoming crazier by the minute, she questioned her own judgement and beliefs.
Thanks to her mother she was as far away from saving a deposit up as ever. She had a tiny rented studio with sparse shared facilities and a job that left hardly any surplus at the end of the month for savings. The endless grind of that wore her down. Her friend Lucy, one of the many waitressing staff, had a buzzing social life which she lived to the full, never knowing or caring what the next moment might bring. Layla rarely had time or funds for any of that.
Why not do something outside her comfort zone for once? Her comfort zone hadn’t exactly delivered much in the way of comfort so far. The thought of doing something reckless and impulsive felt suddenly very exciting, as if she would be stepping outside her own nightmare of a life into a glamorous unpredictable world where anything could happen. For a moment there she actually weakened.
And then reality bit her squarely on the arse.
What was she doing? Was this the kind of thought that travelled around her mother’s brain on a loop? She was under no illusions about how exciting and interesting she was when put up against the draw of fame and fortune, her mother had spent her whole life illustrating that very point. She had no truck with fame or celebrities and was she really about to be seduced by the very thing she’d spent her whole life abhorring?
She grimly ignored the delicious flip flops going on in her stomach as he smiled at her and forced herself to put her glass down on the table. She stood up, put a few paces between them and swallowed hard to channel calm and squash the surge of you’re-not-turning-him-down-are-you disappointment that had begun to rise in her stomach to replace the butterflies. He didn’t get up, simply lounged back on the sofa looking up at her in amusement, a smile still playing about his lips. He was utterly, breathtakingly gorgeous. But the fact that she owned a calendar depicting him in a different bare-torsoed pose for each month of the year had no place whatsoever in this debate.
‘I need to check on a few things downstairs,’ she said, leaning in to grab her clipboard from the table and backing away at speed. ‘If you need anything, call the number for Guest Services. It’s attached to the phone.’
She heard his relaxed laugh as she headed for the door.
‘I’ll do that,’ he called after her.
****
‘I’ve just been hit on by Matt Stanton,’ Layla said, scratching her head. ‘At least I think I have.’
Now she was out of the gorgeous luxury of the Kerry Suite and back down here in the reality check that was the sparse staff quarters of the hotel, she began to question her own perception. Why the hell would Matt Stanton hit on her? He could have anyone he chose.
Her friend Lucy’s eyebrows met in a frown and she quit making coffee to give Layla her full attention.
‘You’ve what?’
Layla glanced quickly around her and lowered her voice to an uncertain whisper.
‘I think I’ve just been hit on by Matt Stanton,’ she repeated.
Lucy squealed mad laughter.
‘You kill me! Course you have! And I’m marrying George Clooney this weekend. He’s popping over to pick me up in his private jet.’
There was a brief stab of indignant offense because she was clearly so undesirable that the idea of Matt Stanton giving her a second glance was a joke.
‘He’s staying in the Kerry Suite on the top floor,’ Layla said. ‘It’s all been hushed up because he’s having trouble with the press and he needed a last-minute bolthole to get away from all the fuss.’
Layla waited patiently until the laughter petered out and an expression of incredulity replaced it.
‘The Matt Stanton? The tennis playboy with the abs to die for? He’s staying here? Omigod I’m such a fan.’ She stared into space, her mind obviously working overtime. ‘I wonder if I can get a transfer from waiting tables into room service for the week. You know, in case he orders some food in, or champagne. Some of those celebs are like that you know, don’t like slumming it in the public restaurant with the rest of us.’
Oh for Pete’s sake.
‘He said he doesn’t usually drink champagne,’ Layla said. ‘He had mineral water and I had orange juice.’
‘You had a drink with him?’
Did she have to sound so amazed by that fact?
‘Yes. And he was going on about personal requests.’
Lucy rolled her eyes enviously at the ceiling.
‘I am soooo jealous! So when are you going to follow it up? You know…’ she winked at Layla ‘…make your next move?’
She spoke as if it was perfectly natural to throw yourself at a celebrity if he happened to wander into your path.
‘I’m not. Of course I’m not. It’s more than my job’s worth.’
Although actually her job wasn’t worth an awful lot right now, was it? She was busting a gut all hours and stuck in dismal rental accommodation for the foreseeable future. Disappointment suddenly seemed to be mixing with something else in her churning stomach. Something that felt an awful lot like regret.
‘It’s not more than mine’s worth,’ Lucy said, grinning.
‘So you wouldn’t have any scruples about having a fling with Matt Stanton then,