God. He’s going to make a scene.
Which is painfully so on brand for the attention whore.
Hot, naked guy’s amusement fades. Irritation flickers across his face, subtle but impossible to miss.
“Who’s that?” he asks.
His voice is controlled and detached in a way that makes my stomach drop.
“It’s… a long story.”
He doesn’t push.
Instead, he reaches into a garment bag and pulls out a pair of trousers. He steps into them with calm, efficient movements that make me even more unhinged.
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
His jaw ticks. “Husband?”
“Not in this lifetime.” No matter how desperately my publicist begs. “I promise you, I’m not with him.”
He looks two seconds from throwing me out the door.
I lower my voice, heat creeping up my neck. “I just need…” His brow quirks with interest. I swallow it back. “A place to hide.”
Another knock. Louder this time. Embarrassingly so.
“I saw you go in there, mi amor,” the idiot coos impatiently.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
“So,” Lumberjack says, all traces of amusement gone. “You’re his love.”
Steam practically rolls off every tight, infuriatingly delicious inch of him.
He fastens the top button of his pants with deliberate slowness, like he’s personally punishing me.
Rude.
His chin jerks toward the door. “Open it, Pix.”
“Can you stop calling me that?”
A beat.
“Either you open the door,” he says calmly, “or I will.”
“Please.” I clasp my hands together like I’m praying to the muscle gods. “Do not give me up. I will do anything,” I whisper.
He hesitates for maybe half a second.
Then he crosses the room.
Two long strides and he’s towering over me, all combustible heat and unapologetic male dominance. My pulse breaks into a drum solo.
“Anything?” His tone makes my stomach flip. Devil’s bargains usually do.
