“Don’t act like everything is fine between us, Daniel, because it’s not.”
It’s a warning, but hearing her use my first name makes my heart skip a beat. The elevator dings just then. We step out into the lobby, and cameras flash immediately. Reporters shout questions. I take Bailey’s hand instinctively, pulling her close as security clears a path. In the car, the silence returns.
Back at the hotel, we head to our adjacent rooms in the penthouse. Bailey opens her room’s door, then pauses.
“I’m not going to the reception.”
“Bailey—”
“They were just being polite. They don’t actually want me there.”
“They absolutely want you there. Cindy was serious about hearing about your other work.”
“I don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”
“Then we’ll find something.” I glance at my watch. “We have three hours.”
She looks at me, really looks at me, and then … I think I’m imagining it, I see a smirk.
“Fine. I’ll go.” She opens her door. “Give me an hour to get ready.”
“Should I—”
“Stay in your room, Daniel. I’ll knock when I’m ready.”
The door closes, leaving me in the hallway with a strange sense of foreboding. That woman is up to something, and it can’t be good.
Forty-five minutes later, I’m in my room reviewing emails when I hear her door open, then footsteps just as my door swings open.
“Bailey, you said an hour—”
The words die in my throat.
She’s standing in my doorway, backlit by her room’s light. And she’s reaching for the zipper of her dress.
“I need help,” Her voice is innocent, but her eyes are anything but. “The zipper is stuck.”
My mouth goes dry. “Bailey—”
I’m rooted to the spot as she turns, presenting her back to me. The zipper is halfway down, revealing the curve of her spine and black lace underneath.
“What?” She glances over her shoulder. “You offered to help me get ready. Come on.”
My feet move before my brain can stop them. I cross to her, fingers finding the zipper pull. It slides down too easily. It was never stuck.
“There,” I croak. “It’s—”
She shrugs, and the dress slides off her shoulders, down her arms, and pools at her feet in a puddle. She’s wearing nothing underneath. Nothing but black lace panties and heels that make her legs endless.
My brain short-circuits completely.
“Much better,” she says casually, stepping out of the dress and walking toward the closet where her garment bag hangs completely topless.
“What are you doing?” I manage to choke out again.
“Getting ready.” She pulls out a navy dress, holding it up and examining it in the mirror. The movement makes everything shift, and I have to grip the edge of the desk to stay upright. “I’m not sure about this color. What do you think?”
I think I’m going to have a heart attack. “Bailey.”
