You have underestimated the hotelier's unconventional charms. Already Nigella, signing the register, casts her smile and flirty glances across the counter at the giggly tower of a man.
He moves about with as much grace as near seven-foot of marionette in a bankman's second suit.
Room keys dance on the hooks behind him. Half the keys clatter to the floor. And the brush of his wide shoulder the other way sends the remainder clattering down to join them, crunching under his likely gigantic shoes.
You have just the one peanut butter cookie saved in a shirt pocket -- perhaps some bittersweet crumbs.