One Bossy Date – Bossy Seattle Suits Read Online Nicole Snow

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Still as a statue, I stand up and stop, focusing on where the noise is coming from.

The bathroom?

Maybe it’s housekeeping after all?

But why in all that’s holy would housekeeping be cleaning my flipping bathroom at—I glance at my phone to check the time—2:37 a.m.?

I feel the blood drain from my face.

We’re back at the serial killer theory because it’s the only thing that makes sense.

If I’m quiet, maybe I can get the jump on him before he notices I’m here. I need to take my best shot while I can—or at least make some racket so maybe someone on another floor calls the front desk.

Yeah, no, my dad didn’t raise a total chicken.

I’m getting him the hell out of my room, or I’ll die trying.

Let’s go, Mr. Psychoface. You chose the wrong girl to mess with today.

My thoughts are braver than the rest of me, though.

My heart strains like an angry dog on a leash with every step toward the bathroom, the source of that scuffing sound.

In front of the half-closed door, I freeze—it’s definitely not the way I left it.

Welp.

Since I’m probably doomed, I might as well surprise my would-be killer.

But I shouldn’t do it empty-handed, I realize at the last second.

I’ve binge-watched too many bad ’90s slasher flicks with Maisy to be the dumb throwaway chick who winds up as someone’s dinner.

I survey the room, looking for something—anything—I can use as a weapon.

It’s a hotel room, though, even if it’s a fabulous one.

There’s not much here besides a couple lamps and a few pieces of decorative art.

The ceramic green fish statue on the table could totally split some skulls—but it’s probably way too hefty to maneuver well.

I could grab a bottle of wine from the mini fridge—except they’re so small I can’t imagine it’d make a dent in anyone.

Then there’s the kitchenette. I guess I could grab a chair, but they’re solid wood, too bulky and hard to carry, let alone swing at someone.

Ugh.

If I live through this, I’m packing something sharp for next time.

My eyes search desperately and finally fall on the bedside table.

“There,” I mouth.

A crystal lamp stands tall and proud.

I grab it and march toward the bathroom.

Only, I didn’t think of unplugging it first. My movement stretches the brown cord and yanks me backward.

“Shit!”

Pulling makes it worse. I just manage to tangle it around a leg of the monkeywood table.

Smooth, Pippa, I think, watching the table wobble.

I try to rush over to free it, but it’s wound around that leg tighter than I realize and—the whole table goes crashing to the ground with a deafening rattle.

Big yikes.

I am dead.

Gasping, I pinch my eyes shut, praying my intruder isn’t about to come barreling toward me.

There’s no way he could’ve missed that elephant stampede. My serial killer knows I’m coming.

Whatever.

Steeling my nerves, I clasp the lamp with both hands, ready to club him in the head. When nobody comes rushing over, though, I slow down and finish freeing the lamp from the wall.

Then I creep toward the bathroom again, each step absolute torture.

This is a bad idea, but it’s my only move.

And is the bathroom door fully closed now? It’s down to a small sliver of light, just enough to peek inside.

But why bother?

It’s past time to fling this door open and pray, but I can’t.

Not when I imagine what’s on the other side.

Don’t go in swinging. What if it’s housekeeping or maintenance after all? Maybe a pipe sprang a leak...

I wish so badly that made any sense at all.

I push my face to that crack of light, trembling.

There’s definitely a low hissing sound like water. The shower, I think, thousands of little rainfall droplets splashing against a hard surface.

Could it really be a maintenance guy who skipped on giving notice?

Could it be that easy?

But at three o’clock in the flipping morning without any notice?

It could be a burst pipe or a malfunction, though.

My toes scrunch. I place my hand on the door, ready to throw it open and accept my fate.

I wind up cracking it another couple inches.

The shower roars louder.

At first, I can’t see through the glassy part of the stall.

But when the silhouette moves in the steaming fog—

Holy shit.

Okay. Deep breath.

So, the staff wouldn’t be showering in my bathroom. We can rule out innocent mistakes.

A minute ago, I was determined to be Miss Danger incarnate, but all the adrenaline that moved me this close to certain death evaporates.

The lamp in my clammy hand feels like it weighs a ton.

I really, really don’t want to do this.

But what’s the other option?

Just up and wait for Mr. Shower Psycho to come slaughter me in bed? Or run for the front door screaming and pray he doesn’t catch up while I wait for the private elevator to this floor?

Yeah, no.

I’m out of time and options. It’s go time.

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