Holly
The door clicked shut behind us, and that singular bed sat there like the elephant in the middle of a very small zoo. Hunter scratched the back of his neck, half-smiling, half-grimacing.
“Guess we’re closer than planned tonight,” he said with a nervous laugh.
I rolled my shoulders, pretending this wasn’t a situation that would send HR into cardiac arrest. “We’re adults,” I said, dropping my overnight bag by the wall. “We can manage sharing a bed.”
“Of course,” he said, tone dry. “Totally professional. Not weird at all.”
I ignored him and grabbed a pillow, plopping it dead-center on the bed. “This,” I said, pressing it into place like a border wall, “is neutral territory. No crossing.”
Hunter grinned, that slow, disarming grin that probably got him out of trouble his whole life. “You’re serious?”
“Very.”
He lifted a hand. “Scout’s honor.”
“Good. Because I mean it, Callahan.”
He gave a mock salute, eyes sparkling. “You terrify me.”
“Excellent.” I straightened up, pretending I wasn’t burning alive from nerves. “I’m taking a shower. No peeking. And no raiding the minibar without me. I called dibs on the tiny vodka bottles.”
He laughed, sprawling back on the bed with his arms folded behind his head. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”
“The kind that steals vodka from weary PR consultants while they’re in the shower,” I said, snatching up my bag and escaping before I said something worse.
I let out a relieved sigh when the bathroom door closed. Alone, even if it was only in this room. Steam fogged the mirror almost instantly, curling around me like an invitation. I made the water hotter than usual, stepping under it and letting it wash away the long day of interviews, the bus ride, the press smiles.
But it wasn’t the exhaustion twisting in my chest. It was him.
The image of Hunter sprawled across that bed, shoes off, hair tousled, that easy smile. The way he’d looked at me. The way I pretended not to notice.
Water coursed over my skin, heat clinging to me until I could barely breathe. I tilted my head back, willing my thoughts elsewhere, anywhere. But they kept sliding toward him. The way he’d pulled his jersey off after the game earlier, sweat running down his chest, that little cut on his collarbone where the tape had rubbed raw.
I pressed my palms against the tile, forcing a breath.He’s your client. Your job.
And yet my pulse didn’t care about professionalism. It never did where he was concerned.
I rinsed off fast, almost angry about it, aboutme. About the fact that a few weeks ago I could’ve drawn a clean line between my work and the rest of my life, and now it all blurred whenever Hunter Callahan smiled at me like that.
When I finally stepped out, I wrapped myself in the stiff hoteltowel and glared at my reflection. “Get it together, Holly,” I muttered. “He’s just a guy. A tired, frustrating, ridiculously good-looking guy who— no. Nope.”
I tugged on my biggest T-shirt and gray sweatpants, armor of the unimpressed, and walked back into the room.
Hunter looked up from his phone, shirtless, wearing nothing but black boxers. His hair had the audacity to curl a little at the edges. Goddamn him.
“Jesus,” I said before I could stop myself.
He looked confused for half a second, then amused. “What?”
“You could’ve—” I gestured vaguely. “Warned me.”
He grinned. “You could’ve done the same. I wasn’t ready to see you all… sexy and stuff.”
“Yeah, nothing says ‘seduction’ like a shirt from the 2016 sponsors’ gala and sweatpants with coffee stains,” I deadpanned.
“Hot,” he said, and licked his lips.
