We both freeze.
Harper lets out a strangled squeak and dives for them. I crouch faster. Too fast. My hand lands on one pair the exact same moment her hand does. Her fingers brush mine. They’re so soft and warm. It sends an electric signal up my arm. I jerk back like the lace bit me.
“Sorry,” she blurts, mortified. “Sorry, sorry. Those weren’t … those aren’t …”
“You’re fine,” I manage, my voice a full octave lower than normal. “Just clothes.”
Notjustclothes. Absolutely not just clothes.
The firelight glows on her cheeks as she stuffs the items back into the suitcase, avoiding eye contact so hard she might sprain something. I stand quickly, scrubbing a hand over my beard, trying to banish the heat pooling in my groin. I wasn’t expecting this. Any of this.
I’ve been alone for years. Comfortably alone. Safely alone. But five minutes in a honeymoon suite with Harper Fox and I’m …
God help me. Aroused. Flustered. Off balance. And completely out of my element.
She stands too, smoothing her dress. Her hands tremble slightly.
“We should … um … set some ground rules?” she offers.
Ground rules. Yes. Something logical. Rational. Safe.
“Yeah,” I say. “Good idea.”
We sit at opposite ends of the bed like middle schoolers forced to share a couch.
She folds her hands in her lap. “Okay. Rule one: respect personal space.”
My gaze drops to her knees, inches from mine.
I swallow. “Right. Personal space.”
“Rule two,” she continues, “we try to be polite. Even if things get awkward.”
“That’s fair.”
“Rule three,” she says hesitantly, “we don’t read into anything. It’s all for show. For the charity stuff.”
Something sinks in my chest. Something unwelcome.
I nod anyway. “Right. For show.”
Because what else can I say? That being around her knocks the wind out of me? That I haven’t felt this alive in years? That every time she blushes, it does something to me I don’t want to examine?
No. Not happening.
She exhales slowly. “Okay, good. We have the ground rules.”
As if the cat has both our tongues, we’re quiet. Too quiet. Maybe turning on the television isn’t a bad idea. It beats uncomfortable silence.
She glances up at me with her small stature sculpted in curves. Oh, that’s a mistake. Those eyes of hers. Too blue and too honest.
I stand abruptly. “I’m going to … check the fireplace.”
The flames are fine. This place probably has a luxury thermostat that controls fire by Bluetooth. But I crouch anyway, pretending to adjust the logs, trying to get my head on straight.
Behind me, Harper lets out a quiet breath. A soft one, almost a sigh. I grip the hearth. I am in so much trouble.
“So,” she says behind me, voice small but brave. “What’s next?”
