Page 16 of Tap My TOKTIK

OLIVIA

It’s mid-morning on Sunday when I surface. Having worked right through the night into the dawn, I needed the sleep. This book is finally working and the words that were dammed up inside me are flowing again. I take a quick shower, pull on some leggings, a tank top and a comfy sweater. Time to write.

The skyline in front of me, a warm cup of coffee and my vivid imagination is all it takes for me to pick up right where I left off early this morning. If I keep going I should be able to get this done in a week, then I can take a break. Maybe even go on a real vacation.

The room phone rings, which is odd. They know not to disturb me unless it’s an emergency, and even then it has to be on my list of what I consider an emergency. Someone died is the one and only item on that list.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Miss Olivia,” the hotel manager greets. “I just wanted to alert you that the gentleman you had dinner with on Friday, Mr Waters, was at the bar last night looking for you. If you’d like we can have him barred from entering the hotel? Has he bothered you?” He sounds concerned, more than he should be.

“No, no he hasn’t.” But him coming back is weird, and the butterflies in my belly are a testament to the fact. “No need to block him, I won’t be here too much longer and I won’t be downstairs much. I’m happy working up in my room, thank you. Will you do me a favor though? Please just let me know if he comes back again, or if he asks for me,” I ask politely. I love the staff here and this just shows they care for me too. “If he does, you can say I checked out already.”

“With pleasure, Miss Olivia,” he replies. “Can I get anything for you? You missed breakfast today.”

The mention of food makes my stomach grumble, and I realize I haven’t eaten. “Please could you send me up some lunch, a bunch of diet Pepsi’s?” I need to switch from coffee before I start twitching from caffeine overdose.

“It will be up shortly.”

“Thank you.” I hang up, and wonder why Harlan came back? Did he realize I saw his phone? Or did he come back for more dessert? There’s no chance in hell I’m going down that path again, I still feel dirty knowing I was with some poor woman’s guy. She was making him breakfast and he was spooning me — it’s just wrong. If I knew who his Bird was I would actually tell her that her man is a cheater. A very skilled-in-bed cheater, but still a cheater. The call from downstairs has me nosy though, so I enter his name into dear ol’ Google.

Harlan Waters.

Not a whole lot comes up, nothing newsworthy at least. There’s a link to his business website, and in the about section it says: Harlan is a self-made property mogul with a hands-on approach to reviving heritage buildings in the greater New York and New Jersey areas.

That’s it. I don’t find him on social media, or LinkedIn, or anywhere else. One or two pictures, all of them for his work. This guy has no digital trail to follow and for someone like me it’s highly suspicious. Serial killer vibes again. My skin prickles, and I shut down the search. It was one night of incredible desserts and other worldly sex. I can compartmentalize it as that and move on. I’m not going to see him again. In fact, I’m going to finish this fucking book and checkout before he can find me. He’s obviously looking, unless he comes here to find women regularly and I was just the flavor of this past Friday night. A thought occurs to me then, and I buzz the front desk.

“Miss Olivia.” The clerk answers with a chirpy customer service voice.

“Do you know if Asher is working the bar today?”

“No, he only works on Friday. Can I arrange a drink for you?”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you.” I hang up. Asher knew him, they were arguing and it seemed personal. I could ask them for Asher’s number and ask him.

I am officially a stalker now — this is a new low.

I push aside the thoughts and memories of Harlan, and get back to work. I have a new motivation to finish and get out of here. It doesn’t need to be a long book, it just has to be a good one. I don’t want my name — well, my pen name — on anything shitty. My mind is now jumping all over the place and it’s hard to focus, but I keep going.

By Wednesday, I don’t know when last I slept, ate or showered but I’ve sent the manuscript off to my editor and it’s a relief that no one else but a writer could ever understand. I shower, throw on some fresh clothing and notify the concierge that I’ll be checking out.

For the first time ever, being here gives me anxiety and I can’t leave fast enough. What was my safe haven and sanctuary has somehow become a prison I can’t wait to escape. It’s all his fault. Coming back here looking for me when his Bird is at home waiting for him. He not only ruined me for other men, but also the one place where I could hide until my latest book was finished. Dickhead.

* * *

The automatic fish feeder I bought has worked well and home feels like it should, quiet and comfortable and me. Surrounded by my things, and no longer carrying the weight of a looming deadline, my anxiety is almost down to a mild panic. It’s after five in the afternoon so I pull up the girls’ group and text them.

Me - Is wine Wednesday a possibility? Because I need it.

Kerry - You finished a book in five days?

Me - It’s a long story. Wine will be required.

Charlotte - My house? Charlotte offers to host, thank goodness she’s the closest to me.

Dion - I’m in.

Dion - Ohhh wine. I’m coming for sure.