8
“YOU’RE here to see a Suro Nakamura?” The woman behind The Drake’s guest desk gave her a questioning look, and Lacey couldn’t blame her. A ratty old Wrigley Field t-shirt and knee-length fleece shorts weren’t exactly standard apparel at one of Chicago’s finest hotels, and she certainly felt out of place in the opulent lobby, which was festooned with silk burnt orange curtains, dark wood paneling, oversized tufted settees, and incredible chandeliers practically dripping with light and crystals.
She was a little surprised she’d gotten past the red-coated doorman who’d also given her a suspicious once over as he let her into the ritzy Chicago landmark, which had been around since the 1920s. But it wasn’t like she’d had much choice. Suro had invited her up to his hotel room, for goodness s
