“There’s, euh, nothing identifying on the outside, and no name tag. But I think from what I saw when I opened it, it belongs to a woman.” A woman who apparently planned to have averygood time on her travels.
“Well, at this time, our protocol says we have to treat your bag as lost, so all I can do is file a report in our system and wait. Hopefully it will show up some time in the next few days. We’ll call you if anything changes.” Nick had managed to hold his panic at bay until now, but these words set his pulse racing. His cameras were in that bag, along with his suit and everything else he needed for this trip. Everything else he owned, really. He rubbed a hand over his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to settle his breathing.
“Okay, but isn’t there some way you can—” he stopped when the room phone rang on the bedside table.
For a moment, his heart gave a hopeful flutter. Delphine?
“Euh, thanks for your help,” he said quickly, wishing he actually meant it, and then he picked up the landline. “Hello?”
“Mr. Jacobs, this is the front desk,” said a man’s clipped voice. “There’s someone down here asking to see you. She says she has your suitcase.”
Relief swooped in Nick’s stomach. “Thank God, tell her to wait just a moment, I’ll be right—”
“She’s also asking me to inquire as to whether you have her suitcase,” the man interrupted. In the background, Nick could hear the murmur of another voice that sounded as agitated as he’d felt before the phone rang. “Gray, hardside, with a teal dress on top? No tag.”
No tag, but a bag full of dildos, Nick thought. Who flew without a luggage tag? He never got on a flight without one, and good thing, too—if he hadn’t put his hotel on his tag, this mystery traveller never would have found him.
“I’ve got it,” he confirmed. “Tell her I’ll be right down.”
He pushed the dress back into the suitcase and zipped it up, then hurried out of his room, already sweating. It had been so long since he’d been home during the summer that he’d forgotten how humid it could get, the way the hot, damp air clung to your skin from the moment you stepped outside. You could sweat through a T-shirt before 10AMin February.
He dragged the suitcase over the dingy hallway carpet, feeling bruises starting to bloom where he’d hit the floor this morning. The Freshwater Hotel looked exactly as he remembered it looking when he’d left for Europe fifteen years ago. It was a fairly old place, and it was only a hotel in the loose, Australian sense of the word. It wasn’t a particularly flashy place to stay; the bar and restaurant downstairs were the main attractions, and the guest rooms were more of an afterthought. But it had been the only accommodation he could find that was within walking distance of the beach and in his budget.
One of these days, some big hotel chain’ll buy this place and upgrade the shit out of it, he thought, arriving in the dated lobby, with its dark wood trim and scuffed tile floor. They’d tear out the battered baseboards and replace the chintz furniture with sleek midcentury modern stuff or rattan Scandi boho decor, market the place as an exclusive beachside haven, and jack the prices up by 400 percent. Sydney real estate being what it was, it was only a matter of time.
Nick’s stomach rumbled and he checked his watch, frowning in confusion until he realized he hadn’t yet changed it from Paris time. He knew from experience that it was best not to think about what time it was in whatever city he’d just left and to focus instead on the timezone he was trying to adjust to. Which meant whatever meal his body was hungry for, it was going to get breakfast. Good thing, too, because the smell of grilling meat wafting into the lobby from the restaurant was agonizing. He’d get this bag swap done and then treat himself to a full cooked breakfast and a strong coffee. His stomach growled again in impatient approval.
Just then, he saw a petite woman sitting in a tired armchair across from the front desk. She was scrolling through her phone and tapping her sneaker impatiently against the tiles andoh, thank Godthere was his suitcase. He started towards her, but at that moment, as if she’d sensed him looking at her, she looked up and stared at him. Their eyes met, and all Nick could do was stare back.
Her hair was no longer in a ponytail but damp and darker and hanging down her back. And she no longer looked like she was about to ram someone with a trolley and then verbally disembowel them. But there was no mistaking: it washer.
Chapter 2
Every time they left on company tour, Heather told Carly to pack a change of clothes in her carry-on, but Carly almost never remembered. This trip had been no different. So she’d showered and climbed back into her grimy airplane leggings and hauled Nick Jacobs’s suitcase down the street and into the hotel lobby, where a welcome wall of air-conditioned air met her at the entrance. For a few quiet moments, she sat on a sagging armchair, enjoying the chill and waiting for him to appear with her bag. But when she looked across the lobby and realized who was staring at her, her face went suddenly as hot as if she’d stepped back outside into the Sydney sun.
Of course, she thought, her pulse pounding in her cheeks. She stared back at him.Of fucking course. What else could an asshole magnet like her expect? The man whose suitcase she’d inadvertently stolen from the airport was the very same man she’d hit with her cart.Unbelievable, she thought. And yet so very her. Even halfway around the world, upside down and in an entirely new timezone, she’d managed to fuck up. Twice. In rapid succession.
At least she could stop thinking of him as Handsome Asshole Guy, because now, she knew his name. Nick Jacobs. Nick Jacobs, who wrote two different phone numbers, an email address, and a hotel name on his luggage tag. Nick Jacobs, who had a very nice collection of what looked like professional-grade cameras. Nick Jacobs, whose shirt neckline revealed a few dark curls of chest hair and whose stubble only accentuated his sharp cheekbones. Nick Jacobs, who probably looked irritatingly hot in that suit she’d found in his bag. Nick Fucking Jacobs, who was watching her from across the room with disdain on his face and her suitcase at his feet.
Best to get this over with.
Carly would just hand over his bag and grab her own, and then she could go back to the apartment, change into some clean clothes, and pretend this never happened. Her wedding beach vacation could start in earnest.
So she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and wheeled the suitcase across the lobby to where Nick Jacobs was still waiting for her, looking haughty and annoyed.
He eyed her closely as she approached.
“You must be Nick,” she said briskly.
“Yep, Nick Jacobs.” He nodded. “Which is what it says right on my luggage tag.” His voice was less hoarse than it had been at the airport, but it still dripped with condescension.
Carly rolled her eyes.This fucking guy.Okay, so she’d accidentally absconded with his bag, but she’d made the effort to return it. And in the blazing Australian sun, no less. She gave him a sarcastic smile that felt more like baring her teeth.
“You could just say thank you,” she said pointedly. Nick Jacobs gave a humorless laugh.
“What am I thanking you for, exactly? For mowing me down with a trolley? For screaming at me in an airport? Or for stealing my property?”
Carly willed herself to keep her cool.Think of calm, good things, Carly. Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens. Magical pointe shoesthat don’t wreck your feet. A barren deserted island where we can send all the shitty men.“I didn’t steal it,” she gritted out, “I took it by mistake.” Because she’d been too enraged—by him, thank you very much—to think straight.
