Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92535 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 370(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
“I’m happy to notify you if there is a cancellation,” he says, “but I have a list about twenty deep of other guests who have requested to be notified of openings before you.”
“I have cash,” I say. “Lots of it.”
The man smiles. “That’s kind of you, but I cannot accept bribes.”
“Even on Super Bowl weekend?”
“Especially on Super Bowl weekend. Enjoy your stay at the Four Seasons, Mr. Morgan.”
Walking back outside feels like a death march. I blink at the onslaught of sunshine; the balmy California weather seemed so benign twenty minutes ago, but it leers at me now, making my T-shirt cling uncomfortably to my chest and back.
“What is it?” Nora asks when she sees me approaching.
“There’s two of us,” I say. “And only one hotel room.”
Chapter Seventeen
Nora
“Is this some kind of joke?”
Theo shakes his head, the sun catching on his forehead. He’s sweating. So am I.
One room. Which means one bed. Potentially for days.
My chest clenches to the point I can barely get air in my lungs. I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I imagine this is how it starts.
I put a hand on the back of a nearby bench. “There has to be something available.”
“According to Rebecca, there’s not a single room available within five hundred miles of L.A.”
“I can fly to . . . to . . .” Where the hell would I go alone on such short notice? Where could I go? If our hotel is any indication, LAX is going to be a mob scene. Getting a flight anywhere is going to be a challenge, especially with the snowstorm that is currently pounding the East Coast.
“We’re stuck, Frasier.”
“Not helping, Morgan.”
He holds up his hands. “Just stating the facts.”
Another fact: he makes travel nightmares look sexy. How his chest and back muscles fill out that fucking T-shirt, the duffel slung casually over his shoulder—don’t even get me started on the Wayfarers he’s wearing—and then there’s my latte, the one he had made for me because he’s apparently been paying attention to how I like my coffee.
Seriously, I could wring this guy’s neck. And then I could maul him, tear off that shirt and lick his stomach and fuck him until he howls my name. My first name, not the one he’s using now.
I look down at my phone and blink, hard. Stop selling yourself short.
But to do that, I need to stop wanting Theo, which is apparently impossible whenever I’m around him.
I’m going to be around him a lot if we’re sharing a hotel room.
Shit.
“What do we do?” I ask hoarsely.
“We could go inside and finish our coffee, for starters. Mine’s starting to, uh, melt, and I have one hell of a headache.”
I look up. “Hungover?”
“No.” His eyes linger on mine for a beat. “Didn’t sleep that great.”
My traitorous gaze flicks to his jeans. He was sporting some pretty epic wood last night. Did I leave him with a raging case of blue balls that kept him up? So what if I did? Hookups aren’t tit for tat. I never asked him to go down on me, and he’d be a dick to expect something in return.
“It had nothing to do with . . . that,” he says softly. “If that’s what you’re thinking. Nothing to do with you, I mean. Well, it does have to do with you, the fact that I didn’t sleep, but not because you didn’t . . . because I didn’t . . .” He spears a hand through his hair and looks away. “Yeah, I’m gonna go inside now before I say something stupider. Even more stupid. Is stupider a word? You know what, don’t answer that, I’ll see you later, Frasier. We have the Mariposa Suite. I’ll make sure they leave a key for you at the front desk.”
He turns and stalks back into the hotel, bumping shoulders with a passing valet as he wedges his way through the front doors.
My heart flutters. A delightful, nonsensical batting of gossamer wings that tickles my sides and makes me want to smile. I’ve seen Theo at a loss for words (I’m looking at you, hobbit costume). But I’ve never seen him flustered. It’s cute. If the hard-on I gave him last night didn’t keep him up, what did?
He was thinking about me. Just like I thought about him while I tossed and turned, too tired, too aroused, to sleep.
“Miss? Miss, do you still need the car?” a valet asks me, squinting against the ardent morning sun.
A shadow moves across the light feeling in my center. It’s not that I’m stuck in California with Theo. It’s that I think I like the idea of being stuck with him. And that’s a big, potentially catastrophic, problem.
“Unfortunately, no.”
I told the team I’d be offline most of the day thanks to travel. But because my schedule just opened up, I figure I should probably log in. For a split second I consider setting up shop at a coffee place up the street in Montecito, but it’s already late—close to lunchtime on the East Coast—so I gird my proverbial loins and head back inside.