Kyle pushed the door to the Royal Suite open with his shoulder, both hands occupied by two large brown paper bags. The smell of fast food—burgers, fries, grease—filled the air around him.
He stopped mid-step.
The suite's dining table was covered. Not with takeout. With plates. Silver domes. Crystal glasses. A spread that looked like it had been teleported from a Michelin-starred kitchen.
Ella sat at the head of the table, a fork halfway to her mouth. Cassandra was beside her, cutting something that might have been salmon. Jasmine had a napkin tucked into her collar, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. Even Junior, strapped into a portable high chair, was gumming a piece of bread.
Kyle blinked.
"You ordered room service?" he asked.
Ella raised an eyebrow. "You left for an hour. We got hungry."
"Hungry?" Kyle looked at the spread. Lobster. Steak. Some kind of truffle pasta. "This looks like a coronation."
