Phoebe's POV
Harold's voice had this rich, smooth quality that never failed to make my lips curve upward whenever he dropped his tone to that lower register.
We pressed close together, our shoulders touching as we both looked up at the night sky.
Maybe it was the cool evening air, or perhaps the way his cologne mixed with the night breeze, but I could feel my ears getting warm without even realizing it was happening.
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Down in the hotel lobby, Alistair chose not to make a personal appearance. He summoned the hotel's general manager instead, instructing him to clear away the few individuals who were still hanging around Harold's vehicle.
By pure chance, the general manager happened to be a middle-aged man of forty-five with thinning hair that he concealed under a hairpiece, a slightly rounded stomach tucked behind his belt, and an expensive, professional suit.
