“I will. Thank you.”
Claire grinned. “Go. Get your New Year’s.”
Bea grabbed her coat, then slipped out through the front door. The car was already waiting, parked at the snow-dusted curb.
“Bea Cruz?”
She nodded.
He opened the door. She slid in. The seats were warm, the music low. The city lights blurred past the window as they pulled away. She didn’t know where she was going, but she was pretty sure she knew who was waiting.
The car drove to the financial district. It was just before eleven. The streets were empty. Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the private entrance of a luxury hotel. The driver escorted her through the lobby, with its polished travertine floors, broken only by handwoven rugs and sleek brass inlays that caught the light like jewelry.
He whispered to the concierge, who met her with a nod.
“Room nineteen hundred, Miss Cruz. The penthouse elevator will take you straight up.”
The lift was mirrored and silent. She looked at herself. Her cheeks were streaked pink, but not from the cold. From anticipation. From nerves. If it wasn’t him waiting at the top, she might actually die of disappointment.
The elevator opened, and there was Gage. A soft blue sweater clung to his form. His navy trousers were perfectly pressed. His hair was slightly windswept, like he’d come straight from somewhere important, but not as important as this.
Bea didn’t think. She ran.
He caught her midstride. Arms around her waist, lifting her clean off the ground. She buried her face in his neck. Birch. Oakmoss. Him.
“You came,” she breathed.
GAGE
It had been twenty-four days.
Gage heard the suite door swing closed, locking automatically behind her.
She clung to him like she couldn’t believe he was real. He liked that. The way she welcomed him. Sweet and unguarded and completely his.
He backed her deeper into the suite, moving slowly but surely toward the bedroom. Her arms were still tangled at his neck. She matched her backwards steps with his forward ones, peppering him with questions.
“I thought you couldn’t leave.”
“Nate thought the same.”
“Is he mad?”
“Ask me later.”
“How long can you stay?”
“Five days. Four, depending on what hits my inbox.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I wasn’t sure.”
“But you always know.”
“I didn’t want to disappoint you if I couldn’t.”
He’d told her he’d come if the deal he was working on with Nate allowed it. But once she’d given the competition a name—Logan—he’d booked the jet.
