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Rosie’s room was a bomb site. Dresses on every surface, a hair straightener on the desk, three pairs of heels by the door. She kicked off her shoes, dropped onto the bed and patted it.
“Sit. Drink. Talk to me, lobby man.”
I sat. She poured two vodkas from the minibar, mixed them with a can of something orange and handed me one. Then she leaned back on her elbows and the slit in her dress fell all the way open, showing a long pale thigh and the edge of black lace.
“So,” she said. “On a scale of one to ten, how naked was Priya?”
“Nine. There was a towel.”
“Ha! Good for her.” She clinked my glass. “She needs some excitement. She’s been single for a year and she’s driving me mad.”
Through the connecting door I could hear a television. Priya, on the other side, a wall away.
Rosie talked. Her job in recruitment, her ex who’d moved to Dubai, the lifeguard at the spa. She talked fast and laughed loud, and every few minutes she touched me: my arm, my knee, my chest. She was nursing the same drink the whole time, I noticed, sharp-eyed and completely clear-headed under all the noise.
Then she put her glass down, slid her hand up my thigh and pulled me down onto the bed beside her. Her mouth found mine, hot and confident.
“I’m not drunk, before you ask,” she murmured against my lips. “I know exactly what I’m doing. Do you?”
Her fingers were on my belt. But through the wall I could still hear Priya’s television, and I couldn’t quite stop thinking about a towel and a crooked smile.