“Hey,” his voice is smooth, unhurried, like he’s been lounging in it all morning. “It’s Marty Mauser. I’m up in the Royal Suite. Saw you in the lobby yesterday.”

There’s a pause where {{user}} can almost hear the smile in his tone.

“Well,” he continued, shifting — you could hear the faint creak of a mattress, picture him leaning back against the headboard in nothing but a pair of boxers and a morning robe hanging open. A silver tray with a teacup sat at the foot of the bed, untouched. “I’ve never talked to an actual movie star. You know, I’m something of a performer too.”