Endurance - Jack Kilborn [10]
Kelly attacked the level with a frenzy. For some reason, more than anything, she wanted to prove Grandma right.
“I’m sorry, Miss Novachek. All of our rooms are booked.”
Deb Novachek kept her anger in check. She was an expert at that.
“But I have a reservation. I confirmed it yesterday.”
The concierge looked pained. He was a tall, pasty man with a bad hairpiece that looked like an animal was perched on his head. His nametag read Franklin. “I realize that. And I humbly apologize for the inconvenience. We overbooked. Your room will be available tomorrow morning, and we’ll upgrade you to a suite at no extra cost.”
“That’s not good enough. Tomorrow is the pre-event briefing. I have to be there early.”
Deb fleetingly considered playing the special needs card, but she knew she’d sleep in her car before she did that. Hell, she’d sleep on the street with a newspaper blanket before she asked for preferential treatment.
“I really wish there was something I could do. I’m very sorry.”
“I’d like to speak to the manager.”
“Miss Novachek, I am the manager. I’ll not only upgrade to a suite tomorrow, but we’d be happy to pay for it to make up for the inconvenience.”
“That doesn’t do me any good tonight.”
Deb felt like crossing her arms, but resisted. It messed with her balance.
“Unfortunately, this seems to happen every year at triathlon time. Every hotel and motel in town is filled to capacity.”
Deb frowned. “Could I room with another contestant staying here?”
Franklin reached for the phone. “That would be up to them. If you give me a name, I can connect you.”
“I don’t know anyone here. This is my first time at Iron Woman.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t just start randomly calling guests.” He put the receiver down and tapped his pale chin, apparently thinking. “You know, there is a bed and breakfast, forty miles out of town. It’s so out of the way, it probably has some rooms available. Would you like me to check for you?”
Deb took a deep breath, let it our slow. “Yes. Please.”
“I’ll need to find the number. I’ll be right back.”
Franklin waddled off. Deb turned away from the check-in counter and faced the lobby. It was crammed full of people. Some of them spectators. Several of them reporters, complete with video cameras and microphones. A few of the women were obviously athletes, and Deb considered approaching some of them, asking if they’d like to share a room. But she didn’t move.
Deb valued her privacy. Social situations were painfully awkward for her.
Which is why she quickly turned away when she saw the man staring.
Men stared at her all the time. So did women. And kids. Even animals did, somehow able to sense something was wrong with her.
But this man wasn’t gawking. He had a playful smile on his face, and his eyes crinkled when she caught him looking.
This wasn’t a gawker. This was a flirt.
Deb preferred the gawkers. She unconsciously glanced down at her cosmetic legs. They were covered by sweatpants. Unless someone was paying close attention, they couldn’t tell, even when she was walking.
“Hello.”
The voice startled her, and she turned around. Mr. Flirt was in her personal space, less than a foot away from her, a sly grin on his face. Deb noted his breath smelled like cinnamon, and he was even cuter up close. Strong chin with a bit of stubble. A roman nose. Neatly cut hair, dark and parted on the side. Sort of like a younger George Clooney.
“Can I help you?” Deb’s voice came out clipped, and a bit squeaky.
“Are you Debra Novachek?”
“Who wants to know?”
“Mal Deiter. Sporting Digest. My office has been in touch.”
He offered his hand.
So he’s not a flirt. He’s a reporter. Which means he knows about my legs.
Deb didn’t know if that made it less awkward, or more awkward. For some reason, she had pictured a woman interviewing her. Or some pudgy old man. Not someone good-looking.
Good-looking guys made her nervous.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Deiter.” She took his hand and shook it hard, businesslike, then quickly pulled away. “They seem to be having some trouble finding me