Merry Misunderstandings

Penthouse

Vivienne POV

Vivienne approached the front desk, her heels clacking on the shiny white marble floor. The Walton Hotel was breathtaking, just like she’d imagined. Giant crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the grand lobby. In the middle, a beautiful fountain bubbled quietly, surrounded by rich leather chairs and expensive-looking artwork. Everything screamed luxury.

The receptionist gave her a bright smile. “Are you here for the hotel convention?”

“Yes, Vivienne Wood,” she replied, smiling back. She had worked hard to get a spot at this convention, calling in a few favors. When she saw that Jack Walton, the owner of the Walton hotel chain, would be speaking, she knew she had to be there. The man was an expert in hospitality. Everyone knew of his hotels. Everyone.

The receptionist typed something into her computer and then slid a keycard across the desk. “Room 345. Enjoy your stay.”

Vivienne took the card and noticed the bellman standing nearby with her luggage. She couldn’t help but look around again. Everything about the hotel was perfect, from the shiny marble floors to the tall windows that let in streams of sunlight. She wondered how much it would cost to create something even half as beautiful back at the B&B.

Ah, Mr. Blackwood. Your penthouse suite is ready for you.”

The words cut through her thoughts like a knife. Vivienne turned to see Grayson standing at the counter, his infuriating smirk firmly in place as he casually took his keycard.

Penthouse suite?

Of course, Grayson would have the best room in the hotel. And of course, he wouldn’t even seem impressed by it.

Rolling her eyes, she decided to head towards the elevators—yes, elevators, plural. There were at least four next to each other. While the bellman chose one, she decided to take the next one. She needed some space, a moment to catch her breath.

She stepped inside, but just when the doors were closing, a hand slid through the c***k, preventing it from moving.

“Hold the door,” Grayson smirked, stepping in beside her. Vivienne sighed loudly, causing Grayson so chuckle. They traveled up in silence, until the elevator dinged, announcing its arrival on her floor.

“Well, this is me,” Vivienne said, without looking back.

“You know where to find me if you want to have some fun,” he called after her. Vivienne knew she should never have slept with him. It had been a bad idea—no matter how much it had stilled a deep craving within her, soothing all of her needs. She hadn’t been this relaxed in…forever really.

Vivienne stepped into her room, and her jaw dropped. The space was as elegant as the lobby, but in a cozier, more personal way. The large space had light, cream-colored walls. The king-sized bed in the center was dressed in a plush white duvet. Not those ridiculously thin blankets you got in other hotels that barely kept you warm.

Opposite the bed, a large flat-screen TV hung on the wall above a dark wood console. To her right, large windows revealed a stunning view of the city, the sunlight streaming in and highlighting the polished wood floors and plush beige carpet.

Her eyes moved to a door on the right. She stepped inside to find a chic marble tiled bathroom with a walk-in shower and a large soaker tub. She couldn’t wait to try it out later.

Walking back to the bedroom, her phone buzzed in her pocket, jolting her from her thoughts. Grayson, of course.

"Don’t get too comfortable, Foxxy. We’ve got a big day ahead. And if you’re lucky, maybe you’ll see me in action at the cocktail hour tonight. Penthouse perks."

She groaned, tossing her phone onto the bed. If she could get through this convention without throttling Grayson, it would be a miracle.

After a quick refresh, Vivienne joined the bustling crowd heading into the seminar room. It was almost 2 30 PM, time for Walton’s seminar. She’d opted for something chic but comfortable: a deep blue blazer, matching slacks, and heels that gave her just the right edge of confidence.

Grayson was nowhere in sight—thankfully—and Vivienne soon got absorbed in the lively atmosphere. The room was filled with professionals from every corner of the industry: hotel managers, designers, contractors, and a handful of renowned figures. She made a mental note to explore the vendor booths later, curious about the innovative tech and materials on display.

The seminar kicked off with Jack Walton’s keynote speech. Vivienne was glued to every word, scribbling notes feverishly on her clipboard. Walton’s advice was practical, but his delivery carried the weight of decades of experience.

The seminar broke for refreshments, and Vivienne stretched her back as she stood. A polite voice beside her drew her attention.

“Hi there,” said a man with an easy smile, dressed sharply in a gray suit. “Mind if I grab a seat? The place is packed.”

“Of course.” Vivienne gestured to the empty chair.

“I’m Ryan Bennett,” he said, extending a hand. “And you are…?”

“Vivienne Wood,” she replied, shaking his hand.

They exchanged light conversation about Walton’s insights and their respective backgrounds. Ryan mentioned he ran a boutique hotel chain, and Vivienne found herself at ease for the first time since arriving.

Then the sound of laughter reached her ears. Turning instinctively, her stomach twisted at the sight. Grayson was seated a few tables away, surrounded by a group of women who all seemed enraptured by his charm. One of them rested a hand on his arm, giggling at something he’d said.

Ryan noticed her distraction. “Friend of yours?”

“Not exactly,” she replied curtly, forcing her gaze back to him.

But as Grayson caught her eye, he smirked—a knowing, insufferable smirk that ignited her irritation and sent her heart racing for reasons she refused to examine.

Vivienne’s focus on Ryan wavered as Grayson leaned in closer to one of the women, his low laugh carrying across the room. Her irritation boiled. Why did he always have to command attention? And why did it bother her so much?

Ryan cleared his throat, snapping her attention back to him. “So, Vivienne, are you enjoying the convention so far?”

“Oh, yes. It’s been enlightening.” She forced a polite smile, trying to shake the growing tension coiling in her chest.

Vivienne turned away from Ryan, forcing a smile, though she could feel the heat of Grayson’s gaze boring into her. She didn't even need to look to know he was still surrounded by those women, still playing the charmer, likely with that same arrogant grin plastered on his face.

Her heart rate quickened for reasons she couldn't—or wouldn’t—understand.

"I'll catch up with you later," she said quickly, before making her way to the bar. She needed something stronger than water to get through the rest of the day.

At the bar, she ordered a gin and tonic, trying to focus on the moment. The glass clinked in her hand as she brought it to her lips, the coolness helping to ease the tightness in her chest, but it didn’t do much for the agitation swirling in her gut.

The sound of laughter echoed behind her, and she didn't have to turn around to know who it was. Grayson’s low laugh, like a magnet, pulled her attention back toward the table full of women.

Her grip on her glass tightened as she took a slow, steadying breath. This wasn’t jealousy. She wasn’t that type of person. But something in her stirred—an urge to walk over there, to challenge the easy charm he lavished on everyone else.

“Everything okay?” Ryan’s voice broke her focus.

She turned, forcing a smile. “Just...taking a moment.”

Ryan studied her face for a moment, his eyes flicking back to Grayson, then returning to her with a knowing smile. “I can see why it’s hard to focus with all that going on.”

Vivienne’s mouth twisted into a half-smile. “It’s just... distracting.”

“I see.” Ryan smiled, then leaned in slightly. “Would you like to get away from all of this chaos?” He paused, letting the question hang in the air. "Maybe we could head out to dinner... get some peace and quiet?"

Her gut told her to say no, but her mind was tired of the constant push-pull between Grayson and herself. She had nothing to prove—certainly not to him.

“Sure,” she said, before she could think twice.