“Go ahead. We’ll take the next one. Get settled in and enjoy your rooms. Everyone meet back in the lobby at 5:30. We have the opening dinner this evening,” James says casually.
When the next elevator arrives, we step in.
“Please explain,” I say abruptly.
“I booked all the rooms on different floors. Nobody else has a room on our floor. We’re in the presidential suite.”
It registers that he’s planned this, orchestrated it so that the two of us are in a carefully constructed bubble.
“You thought about this.”
“Yeah. I thought about this.” He pauses. “If there’s any other reason you wouldn’t feel comfortable staying with me, I’ll get you a room. Just say the word.”
I think about it, but it only takes me a second to decide.
“No. I want to stay with you,” I assure him.
Chapter 22
Ihave never been inside a room that felt like I was trespassing until this one.
The presidential suite radiates a kind of deliberate excess, the likes of which I’ve only ever seen in the pages of Architectural Digest. The entry hall opens onto a living room bigger than my entire apartment, the floor-to-ceiling windows wrapping around in a glass arc that gives you the city in one dizzying sweep. There’s a velvet sectional the size of a starter home, a curving white bar with a mirrored backsplash, and a grand piano so glossy it reflects the room.
James closes the door behind us, and I’m not sure how to proceed. I stand rooted on the marble, my suitcase at my feet, and will myself not to touch anything that looks more expensive than my car.
His jacket is already off, and he sets it carefully over the arm of the sectional before heading to the main bedroom.
“Avery,” he calls, his voice echoing through the suite.
I follow, dragging my suitcase behind me. The bedroom holds a king-size bed with a half-dozen pillows, a bench at the foot, a bathroom the size of a pickleball court. There’s a wall of glass, a separate vanity, and a rainfall shower built so large it also houses a soaking tub.
“Let’s unpack and meet in the living room to work on the finishing touches for the presentation,” he suggests.
I roll my suitcase to the far side of the bed and open it, pulling out my conference outfits and lining them up in the closet. There are padded silk hangers, and my hands are clumsy on them, dropping the hangers twice before I manage to hang anything.
Every second, I’m acutely aware of James’s body passing behind me as he hangs his own clothes.
He glances at my suitcase, then at me as I finally take my jacket off, and for a moment the practiced calm slips before he smooths it flat again.
We grab our laptops and head toward the living room to get to work.
James sits on the velvet sectional, and I sit close to him but still far enough away that another person could squeeze between us.
James stares at me and finally says, “What are you doing?”
“I’m running through the presentation. Have to make sure we won’t go over the time limit.”
“No. I mean, what are you doing all the way over there?” he says, nodding to where I’m seated.
“Oh, I don’t know. I just sa—”
I can’t finish my sentence before I feel James’s hand slide under my ass and yank me to him. The swift movement causes me to yelp.
He presses a kiss to my temple, but doesn’t pull away.
“It’s just you and me here. If you think that I’ll allow even an inch between us when we’re alone, you’re mistaken,” he says against my skin.
He pulls away, and I turn to look at him, placing my hand on his jaw. I lean in and press a kiss to his mouth.
