I fling my sports bra, Ditto notebook and trainers into the bedroom and stride back to him, slightly out of breath. “You’re right, but former friend slash worst nemesis slash current friend doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.”
He thinks about this for a second, mouth opening andthen closing again as though he’s rethinking what he was about to say. After a moment of silence he speaks.
“So, where can a ‘former friend slash worst nemesis slash current friend’ work on their master takedown plan?” Eyebrows raised, he looks around the room, strategically avoiding a glance at the bed.
Maybe I should go home—cower at this surprise appearance and slink off back to my flat—but my pride stops me. We are friends now and I was here first. Also, if I leave now he’ll win, and that is so much worse than having to deal with his presence for a couple of hours.
I study the room too; then I point to the sofa. “There.”
He nods silently and paces over.
“Don’t let me disturb the rest of your evening,” he says sarcastically, looking me up and down.
“You arealwaysdisturbing,” I mutter as I tighten my robe again.
He lets out a chuckle. I wonder if he remembers the last time I said that to him: when he was trying to put me off taking this project, telling me I’d be too uncomfortable. It’s crazy how far we’ve come since then. I would never have believed you just a few weeks ago if you told me I would be alone, half-naked, in a penthouse suite with Eric Bancroft.
Alone. Half-naked. With Eric Bancroft.I swallow an audible gulp.
He kicks off his shoes and peels off his damp jacket, gently hanging it over a chair, then pads over to the sofa and begins to work as I try to edge my way subtly intothe bathroom. Once inside, I shut the door and droop over the marble double sink.
“Get it together. We are over this. This isnota big deal,” I insist to my reflection. “It’s no different than when we were alone in the Fate office together.”
Except, it is different. Now, I’m not with William or struggling through heartbreak, and unlike working in the office, there is no chance of a colleague or boss walking in on us alone together. Bancroft and I are alone together. Oh my god, I need to stop overthinking this.
He’s just studiously working on his presentation, not thinking about anything but securing the new job, and I’ve trapped myself in a bathroom freaking about how the touch of his fingers during the yoga class feels practically imprinted on my hips. I shake my head and splash my face with cold water.
Trying to find something to take my mind off the man on the other side of the door, I peruse the free soaps, gels and creams neatly littering the sink counter. I freeze as its contents come into focus on the marble countertop. In front of me is a basket of amenities so extensive I can imagine Alice screaming with excitement. Hair masks, face creams, body oils, something called snail serum and a HEIMACH-branded black velvet pouch, which I can’t help opening and tipping out onto the counter. It’s a sex bag. A sex bag packed with everything you might need for a steamy night in a penthouse suite. There is a vial of organic massage oil, a travel-size bottle of vanilla-flavored lube and an assortment of vegan condoms. Christoph wasn’t exaggeratingwhen he said the team thinks of everything here.I try to put each item back in the pouch, but it’s all so tightly packed it quickly dawns on me I can’t put it back the way I found it. The moment Bancroft sees the strewn-out basket it will become painfully obvious I’ve been hiding in the bathroom playing with sex paraphernalia. I shove the condoms, lube and oil into the deep pockets of my robe and rearrange the marginally less stuffed basket until it looks untouched. Bancroft already thinks I’m a prude; the last thing I need is a lube elephant-in-the-room screaming “this is asexpenthouse” from the bathroom to give him ammunition. I take a breath, safe in the knowledge that he’ll be gone in a few hours and my body will be free of this weird butterfly tension.
I turn the bath taps back on and blast hot water into the tub. Hardly the relaxing experience I was hoping for, knowing he’s on the other side of the suite. I lie in the bath, hot, sweaty and uncomfortable. I should just get out. After a few minutes I stand, pulling the fluffy white towel from the rack. It unravels and my stomach sinks as I realize the fabric wrapped around me barely reaches my midthighs, and soaking wet re-curling hair is dripping around my shoulders and back. In my urgency to escape a potentially awkward moment, I didn’t even think to bring my clothes in here either.
“Close your eyes!” I shout through the cracked door.
I wait a few seconds with no reply.
“Are they closed?” I ask.
“Yes,” he calls back, voice slightly strained.
I take a few tentative steps out to make sure his eyes are actually closed; his hands are also over his face as an extra precaution. Satisfied, I fling my body out of the bathroom past the doorless opening between the bedroom and living room, cursing this room’s chic open-plan design. Hiding in the furthest corner of the bedroom I dry off and throw on my underwear and the now dry T-shirt, layering my robe on top so only my bare legs are visible. My wet hair sits in a fresh fluffy towel on my head.
“Are you done?” he asks, hands still over his eyes.
“Yeah,” I say, trying my best to sound nonchalant.
“Your food arrived—I took the liberty of checking it for poison,” he states, nodding to the plates of Wagyu burger with truffle fries and Caesar salad with grilled chicken on the coffee table. The burger has a huge bite taken out of it. I lift my eyebrows in outraged question. “In my defence, you ordered two main courses for yourself and used all the room service credit, so it was that or starve.”
“No worries, buddy! Have as much as you want—perhaps some fries with that?” I say sarcastically.
He either does not note my tone or ignores it and grabs a handful of truffle fries as I slowly slide the warm plate toward me, letting out an involuntary moan as I take a bite of the burger. I cover it by lounging on the chaise longue across from him and watching him as he stares intently at his laptop screen.
Popping a fry in my mouth I ask, “How’s your presentation going?”
“Good,” he says blankly. “Yours?”
I suck in my teeth, disappointed by his lack of information. “Finished.”
His brow crinkles. “Then what are you working on now?” He gestures to the laptop on the bed.
