He wore a T-shirt and jeans, the shirt tight across his chest and his jeans loose on his hips. His hair was wet, dark, and glossy and starting to curl into waves I wanted to trace with my fingertips.
Jesus, was this a thing I did now—touch his hair? I didn’t know what we did because I hadn’t had time to process our kiss. Not the one in the rain or the second one when he’d walked me to my door, pressed me against it, and proceeded to destroy my last surviving brain cell before he walked away, whistling. All I could do was scurry into my shower and relieve the ache between my thighs with the showerhead.
Thank the Almighty for the fabulous water pressure in this hotel.
“I…no,” were the only two words I could pull out of my brain.
“What do you know?” He rested his forearm on the doorframe and leaned toward me. The scent of hotel soap and something herbal—lavender, maybe?—wafted toward me, and I wanted to roll in it like a dog.
“What? Nothing.” I couldn’t talk to him yet. Not while my wits were still offline. Certainly not in my bathrobe. I tugged the tie tighter around my waist.
“I can see the gears whirling in that impressive brain of yours. Thinking will go better with food. Come with me.”
“I’m not dressed,” I protested.
“You have on enough clothes to walk across the hall to my room.” He held out his hand.
“Your room?”
“I got room service. I’ll help you process this.”
“What if I’d process better on my own?”With more clothes on.
“I’ve got fresh pineapple.”
“Damn you, that’s my kryptonite.”
“I know. I’ve watched you eat your weight in it on this trip. Come on. We’ll eat. And talk. And then…”
“And then?” I searched his face, but his habitual smirk was missing.
“You tell me.”
His hand was still extended, palm up. I slipped my key card into my pocket, then set my hand onto his. He curled his fingers around mine. Like at the beach, I noticed the roughness of his calluses. For half a second, I wondered about them. Then I remembered the climbing gym he’d mentioned in one of our interviews with Finley. That must be where those impressive shoulders came from too.
He led me across the hall and a few doors down to his room. He hadn’t lied. In the cozy sitting area in his room, a feast of snacks was laid out on the coffee table: flaky empanadas, crispy plantain chips, salsa, an assortment of cheeses and cured meats, and chunks of ripe tomatoes. Plus, there were the promised slices of pineapple, along with watermelon and papaya. My stomach rumbled.
“Damn you and your charcuterie skills,” I said, sinking onto the loveseat.
He shrugged. “All I did was take it off the small plates and put it onto a big plate.”
“Every younger Millennial I know can effortlessly arrange a beautiful board. They must have taught that in school after I left.” I reached for a ball of the squeaky fresh cheese I’d devoured on the retreat.
“What, like it’s hard?” He winked. His thick thigh pressed against mine.
“No. You arenotallowed to quoteLegally Blonde. You were, like, two when it came out.”
“I’m pretty sure I was a preteen. I remember my friends’ parents getting a copy in the mail.”
“Oh, god.” I closed my eyes. “I remember DVDs by mail. I couldn’t afford it, though. My first job paid crap. I had to track every penny I earned.” I filled a small plate with an empanada, a stack of pineapple, and more cheese. “I was definitely too poor for room service.”
“Look how far you’ve come.” He slipped a sliver of papaya into his mouth. “Staying in a five-star resort and eating room-service snacks organized by a charcuterie master. A devastatingly handsome one, I might add.”
“You’re so full of yourself.” I couldn’t help grinning.
“Admit it, you like that about me.”
“I don’t,” I lied. The truth would only make him more insufferable. “How did you get a better room than me?”
