Taking a deep breath, I tell myself to let all my tension out on my exhale as the hot water rushes over me. I do this a few times, but each time, I find myself focusing on my rage instead of letting it go. I’m suddenly desperate to get back to San Felipe so I can find Hadley and tell her everything. But I can’t. I’m stranded here for the rest of the day and night withhim.
And although it was gentlemanly for Theo to let me have the first shower and notice I was shivering and want to fix it, I still hate him. He treats everyone like they’re below him. Although he was rather sweet with Vincent when he was getting sick. But still, heisentitled and rude and arrogant. That’s true too.
I suppose if I was that good-looking, I might be arrogant too. His body under those wet, clingy clothes? The sight of it did something to me akin to breaking a million synapses in my brain that I require for higher level thinking, because when we were fighting, it was all I could do to stop my hands from running all over that manly goodness.
What is wrong with me? How can I havethosefeelings forthatman? I hate him. I shouldn’t want to tear off his clothes and have my way with him. Oh God, does this mean I secretly have some sort of masochistic tendencies I don’t know about? Is my self-worth so low I want to be with a terrible man?
No, that can’t be it. He’s just stupidly hot, and he’s got me all bothered, so I’m mixing up loathing with lust.
I shut off the water and stand in the shower, for the first time noticing how incredible this en suite is. The shower is massive. The water rains down from the ceiling, which is a huge departure from my apartment shower, with the weak spray that forces you to run around to get wet under it. And I didn’t even enjoy it.
That bastard.
I towel off and pull on a plush white robe that hangs off me and feels like a cozy cocoon when I tie the sash. Sliding my feet into slippers, I finally feel myself calming down a bit, until guilt nudges me to hurry up so Theo can have his turn. He may not deserve my kindness, but choosing to be selfish isn’t exactly taking the high road. Gathering my clothes, I hurry out of the bedroom and stop at the laundry closet in the hall to drop them into the washer.
When I enter the living area, I smell something divine. Theo is in front of the stove. He glances over at me, and we both quickly look away. Suddenly the things we said feel all too real.
“The shower’s all yours,” I tell him in my most business-like tone. “And I put my clothes in the machine, but I didn’t turn it on. I thought we’d wash them all together.”
He turns down the heat on the stove top. “I found spaghetti, so I made a tomato sauce. If you don’t mind keeping an eye on it while I shower, I’ll make the pasta when I get out.”
“I can make the pasta.”
“Only if you want to. I know you’re off the clock.” He rests the lid on the pot, leaving it slightly tilted, then strides out of the room, leaving me feeling restless and stupid.
* * *
By the time the noodles are cooked, Theo has rejoined me in the kitchen after turning on the washing machine. I’m tempted to make a crack about how I wasn’t sure he knew how to work those things, but I hold my tongue. I’m hungry and tired from all the hiking and emotional upheaval. I also can’t help noticing how the same robe I’m drowning in pulls tautly across his muscular chest and back. That thought leads me to the realization that underneath that robe is nothing but body. And what a body it is.
Nope! Erase that image from your brain, both immediately and permanently.
We work together silently—Theo opening a bottle of red wine while I plate the spaghetti and sauce. When we sit at the table, I stare down at the meal for a second, realizing how utterly surreal it is that we both had a hand in cooking it, and that we’re sitting here in nothing but our robes, about to eat together. Me, a lowly hotel events coordinator, with one of the richest men in the world.
“Thank you for the spaghetti,” he says, twirling some onto his fork.
“Thank you for the sauce,” I tell him, doing the same.
The first bite is amazing. Hot but not too hot, and the sauce—wow. It’s the perfect blend of tangy, salty, garlic, and oregano. Unable to contain myself, I let out a moan of delight.
Of course he smirks at the sound.
Outside, dark clouds swirl above the ocean in the distance, and the rain pelts the windows, creating a moody backdrop that suits the situation.
Theo lifts his glass and takes a sip. “The pasta is cooked to perfection.”
“Thanks. Your sauce is surprisingly good.”
“You assumed I wouldn’t know how to cook.”
“I may have, yes,” I answer, twirling more noodles onto my fork.
“I got sick of eating ramen during my first year of university, so I made it a point to learn how to make a few dishes when I went home for the summer. And yes, it was our family’s chef who taught me, not my mother.”
The way he says mother lacks any hint of warmth, and I wonder what his childhood was like. Knowing that’s off-limits, I say, “Where’d you go to school?”
“Cambridge for my undergrad degree, then Oxford for my master’s in business. You?”
“San Felipe Community College for my business diploma,” I say, a hot flash of shame hitting me. I pick up my wine and have a big sip to douse the feeling.
