Starstruck

“I’m sorry. There simply are no rooms. The resort is in holiday previews, and the rooms not already booked by the public have been blocked off for the guests of the Gala Opening.”

“Oh! Right! Well, that’s me. I’m coming to the gala.”

Across the room, Claire lifted her brows.

“Name, please.”

Alyssa hesitated, wondering how she was going to pull this off. Since nothing came to mind, she said her real name and hoped she could fake it. “Chambers. Alyssa Chambers.”

There was tapping as the woman on the other end of the line checked a computer. “I’m sorry, Ms. Chambers. You don’t seem to be on the guest list. Perhaps you should contact the Starr corporate offices and see if there’s been an error?” Though the woman was perfectly polite, Alyssa could hear the accusation. Perhaps you should hang up now, you lying little twit. “Shall I connect you directly?”

“Yeah. That would be great. Oh.” She pretended that she’d just thought of something key. “Once we get the gala invitation thing straightened out, will I have a room? Or will I be back here with you, trying to find a place to sleep?”

“All the gala invitees have rooms preassigned.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Hold music hummed, and just as someone was picking up with “Starr Industries, how may I help you?” Alyssa hung up the phone.

Basically, she was screwed. No rooms at the hotel unless she was an invited guest, and no way to become an invited guest.

“Maybe you should call Russell and ask for a ticket?”

Alyssa gaped at Claire. “Are you nuts? Even if his secretary puts me through, how am I supposed to explain? ‘Gee, Russell, I want to invite myself to the gala so I can hit you up for your business?’”

“Not work,” Claire said. “Romance.”

“Like that’s much better. ‘Hey, Russell. I had such a great time having a drink with you that one night, please arrange me a room in Santa Fe.’ Um, no.”

Claire made a face. “Okay, you have a point.” She stood up and hooked her purse over her arm.

“Wait a second. Where are you going?”

“Drinks,” Claire said. “Joe. He’s going to pick me up.” She held up her cell phone. “My side of the pledge is moving forward just fine.”

“But—”

“You’ll get there. I have absolute faith.”

Alyssa watched her friend go, wishing she had Claire’s certainty. Because at the moment, the only way she could think of to get to that gala was to ask Russell for a ticket. But that was hardly the image that she wanted of her in Russell’s head. He needed to think of her as competent and capable. A woman who could represent his legal interests and slide easily into his life. She wanted him smitten on absolutely every level.

And one didn’t reach smitten by begging for a room.

No, she’d get to the resort on her own. Or not at all.

Unfortunately, not at all was looking more and more likely.

Maybe she should book a room at a nearby motel and then wander over to the Starr Resort for the evening festivities.

A quick look on the Internet put the kibosh on that plan, though, as it was clear that privacy had been one of Russell’s primary concerns in designing the resort. It wasn’t close to anything. And with the predicted snow and the winding roads, Alyssa had no intention of driving from a Motel 6 to the resort on a daily basis.

Damn.

There had to be a way.

Except there wasn’t.

She sat back on the couch, the mug cupped in her hands, her entire being shifting into mope-mode. Probably best to accept the reality that saving her job and getting the guy was idiotic and oh-so-unlikely.

Sometimes reality really was a bitch.

She sighed, took another sip of chocolate, and decided that it was time to forget about crazy fantasies and force herself into getting some holiday spirit. From the corner of her apartment, the small Christmas tree she’d bought seemed to beckon. She’d held off decorating it, because despite the lights and the carols and the parties and the wassail, the season didn’t feel like Christmas. Not when she was sitting there, a dateless wonder.

“Pathetic.” With a sigh, she dragged a chair to her hall closet, her head spinning slightly from the schnapps and lack of dinner. Her apartment was ancient and had great—if poorly designed—closet space. The hallway linen closet was designed in two sections, with the main section being reachable by normal people, and the top section being accessible only by giants. Add to that the fact that the space went back several feet, and Alyssa sometimes wondered why she hadn’t bought a full-blown ladder to keep in the apartment so that she could get to all her stuff.

Balancing on the chair, she yanked open the cabinet, then pulled down the giant plastic bags stuffed full of summer clothes. Behind them, she’d stashed the boxes of Christmas ornaments, and now she stood on her toes, trying to get her fingers to connect with the boxes.

Just a teensy bit closer…

Her fingers brushed the cardboard, but she couldn’t get a grip on the smooth box. Dammit. She knew there was a reason she should’ve hung on to that ugly step stool she’d hauled to Goodwill last month. Now what was she going to do?

With no other options, she climbed off the chair, grabbed a broom from the pantry, and climbed back on, this time armed. She shoved the broom into the abyss, eased it between the box and the wall, and started using it to ooch the box forward. The box, however, was not inclined to cooperate, and so she jerked hard on the broom, punctuating the move with a rather loud, rather definitive curse.

The box moved.

Not only did it move, it shot forward, having apparently been blocked by a slight bump in the wood that Alyssa’s persistent shoving had overcome.

It teetered at the edge of the closet, Alyssa’s fingers keeping subtle pressure so it didn’t fall, every ounce of her concentration going to keeping her balance despite the mushiness that was her head. She took a breath, satisfied that all she had to do now was shift a little and close her fingers around the box.

But when she tried, the box—that same box with her grandmother’s delicate glass ornaments—tilted forward at a dangerous angle.

She could picture the box sliding through her hands, crashing to the ground, and the ornaments her grandmother had passed on to her smashing into so many bits of colored glass.

Who knew that decorating a tree under the influence could be so dangerous?

She tried to edge the box back into the closet, figuring she could borrow a proper ladder from the manager and try again, but the box was having none of that. Instead, it seemed, her destiny was to remain right there, balanced on a chair, her hands above her head getting tired as she kept a box from falling. And there she would remain until she passed out from hunger or her arms atrophied for lack of blood.

Three taps sounded at the door, and the wave of relief that crashed through her was so intense it almost had her sagging—and the box dropping. “Chris! Come on in!”

The doorknob rattled, and even as she remembered that she’d locked the door, she heard his frustrated “It’s locked, Alyssa.”

The box teetered, she tilted back to catch it, her head swam and she yelped. “Chris!”

“Hang on!” he called.

She heard the slam of his own apartment door, followed a few seconds later by the rattle of a key in her lock. She said a silent thank-you that she’d designated both Chris and Claire as the keepers of her spares, and then muttered a desperate “help!” as the door burst open.

“What on earth—”