He takes a drink, watching me over the brim. I, in turn, watch how his bicep ripples as he lifts his glass. I tell myself it’s because attention to detail is what I do best, but in reality, it’s probably because not one thing in the room is more attention-worthy than him.
He sets his glass on the black-and-silver granite countertop.
“I was happy to get your text tonight.” His deep voice rumbles over my skin. “I was sure you were going to wait until tomorrow.”
“I was, but Colic Baby started up again.”
“Maybe I should send them a fruit basket.”
“I think they’d appreciate a good night’s sleep instead.”
His eyes twinkle. “I hope I’ll be a little sleep deprived too by the time you leave.”
My heart leaps to life. Blood pours through my brains at a manic level. Every cell in my body goes into overdrive, hoping to come into contact with the hard body just a few feet away from me.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other as I set my glass on the counter beside his.
“I think we need to communicate a little better about a few things before I get too settled in,” I say, my voice steady thanks to years in high-pressure courtrooms.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “What do we need to communicate about?”
“Well, for one, I’m not against having sex with you. I mean, clearly. But I want to be clear that I didn’t agree to stay here just to sleep with you.”
“I don’t think that.”
“Good,” I say, forcing a swallow. “Also, let’s be clear that I do expect to stay in a guest room. It’s imperative that we keep this thing between us straightforward, so it’s not problematic when I leave in a few days.”
He lifts a brow, his jaw flexing. “You’re talking like my hospitality is something to be negotiated.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.” His arms fall to his sides. “I can forgive you because I suspect that most things in your life are a contract or agreement.”
“Aren’t all things in life?”
He rolls his eyes. “Follow me.”
“Where are we going?”
He doesn’t bother with an answer. Instead, he makes his way back down the hall, past the overpriced artwork, and to the foyer. He gathers my bags and briefcase in his large hands.
“Holt,” I say, catching up to him. “What are you doing?”
“Putting things in the guest room.”
He flashes a look my way that makes me think that was his original intent. And that makes me flush with embarrassment as I ascend the staircase next to the grandfather clock.
We stop at the first door on the right. He flips on a light.
“Here you go,” he says, setting my things on an antique four-poster bed. “There’s a bathroom just for this room through that doorway.” He motions to his right. “You can stay here as long as you want. My room is down the hall.”
I suck up my pride. “I apologize if I was rude.”
“You weren’t rude. Just … presumptuous.”
“Well, I apologize for being presumptuous.”
He studies me. His eyes narrow as he works his bottom lip between his teeth. Finally, it pops free. “I’m going to need you to do one thing for me if you stay.”
