Stained Glass Shards

12.

ELYCE

The three hours of silence allowed me to write uninterrupted. After seeing Griffin and receiving a text which demanded my time, I had been shaken but also inspired to add material to my new book. This time, my heroine was much stronger and more assured of her needs and wants. As if through osmosis, I felt invincible as I typed a scene or added more to my outline.

Ritter had been in his teleconference for hours. I hadn't dared return to our room. The hotel lounge was comfortable, albeit somewhat noisy with the comings and goings of Beverly Hill's tourists and residents, who were shopping and dining within the building.

Intermittently, I stopped to observe the people. One thing I noticed was the number of solo people walking around on their cell phones or tending to their small dogs. Sometimes they did both. They appeared uncomfortable in their own solitude. These weren't people used to being alone. They craved attention and recognition, despite being inside a dimly lit building and wearing sunglasses. A couple of celebrities had attempted to look like normal citizens, hidden under a hat and dark sunglasses, walking closely beside a friend as if their abnormal movements wouldn't be detected.

To concentrate on my work, I had turned off my phone, eliminating my compulsion to check emails and social media. Ritter had promised to pick me up when his meeting was finished.

And I was avoiding Griffin. Whenever the memory of our encounter or his demanding text penetrated my mind, I pushed it aside and focused on my work.

The time seemed to tick slowly. I should have planned on going out on my own, far away from Griffin and his club. The thought of him summoning me to meet him angered me. It was too presumptuous.

How he got my phone number was a question I never planned to ask.

I stood up to stretch. I had changed into comfy leggings and a thin, oversized boatneck sweater, which fell off my shoulder to reveal the strap of my camisole. My ensemble was dressy enough to surpass Beverly Hills's definition of slouch. As a man passed by, he watched me twist and turn at the waist. He smiled at me, showing obvious cosmetic dental work. His teeth glowed against his tanned skin. He pulled up his shades from over his eyes, parking them on his perfectly coiffed hair, and ogled me. I turned away, discomfited.

I was still getting used to men's attention.

It was already after five, and hunger pervaded my rumbling belly. My eyes hurt from dryness and overuse. I slipped my laptop into its case, tucking my mouse and stylus in the pocket. The hotel key lay on the screen of my cellphone, which I picked up and slipped between the case and my bosom. I walked to the reception area to ask the concierge about dining in one of the hotel's three restaurants. I wanted to peruse the menus of each to decide which cuisine supported my new eating plan.

When I approached the foyer, I stopped dead in my tracks, recognizing Griffin's back as he argued with the young woman at the front desk. I could hear the agitated tone of his voice as he attempted to get my room number.

"Griffin!" I called to prevent security from being alerted.

He turned upon hearing my voice, looking angry. Angry at me for not attending the club, or angry at the desk clerk for doing her job—I didn't care to know.

Tucking his sunglasses inside his jacket pocket, he marched over to me. In an instant, his expression softened, and the light in his eyes brightened the darkness in his baby blues.

"I texted you," he said, stopping within a foot of where I stood.

I stepped back, giving us more space. "What do you want?"