“Excuse me,” I say to the clerk, flashing my most charming smile. “I was wondering if the restaurant hours have changed because of the blizzard?”
Before she can answer, I feel him before I see him. That prickle at the back of my neck, the way the air seems to thicken. I turn slightly, and there he is—Beckham Kingston in all his perpetually annoyed glory, standing a few feet away at the other end of the desk, scowling at his phone like it personally offended him.
He’s in dark jeans and a black quarter-zip pullover that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that should be illegal.
Our eyes meet, and his scowl deepens. I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.
“Coach King,” I say sweetly.
He grunts something that might be a greeting, his eyes dropping to take in my outfit before snapping back up to my face.
“The restaurant will be open until ten tonight, miss,” the clerk tells me. “We've extended hours since no one can leave.”
“Thank you,” I reply, not taking my eyes off Beckham. “Looks like we're all stuck together, huh, Coach?”
“Apparently,” he mutters, shoving his phone in his pocket. “At least some of us are dressed appropriately for public spaces.”
I roll my eyes. “Really? That's what you're going with? Fashion police?”
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he growls, gesturing at my robe. “And why are you in public in it?”
I pull the lapels of the robe tighter, giving him my best scowl. “It covers more than most of my dresses, for your information. Excuse me for being comfortable.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek jumping. “There are children in this hotel.”
“Yeah, and they're all wearing swimsuits at the pool,” I shoot back. “But please continue telling me about appropriate attire, Mr. I-Bend-Women-Over-Tables.”
His eyes darken dangerously, and for a moment I think he might drag me into the nearest closet and remind me exactly what happened on that table. Instead, he turns to leave, clearly done with the conversation.
“Didn't peg you for the sensible type, Coach,” I call after him, unable to resist poking the bear.
He stops dead in his tracks, and when he turns back to me, the look in his eyes makes my breath catch.
“I'm not,” he growls, his voice dropping to that delicious rumble that vibrates through my core. “That's the problem.”
Before I can respond, he turns again and strides toward the elevators, his broad shoulders tense under his dark sweater.
I should let him go. I should head to my room, change into actual clothes, and stop antagonizing the man who makes my body hum.
Instead, I find myself hurrying after him, feet slapping against the marble floor as I catch up just as he's pressing the elevator button.
“Hey,” I say, sliding up beside him. “What do you think of my nails? Does the color suit me?”
I wiggle my fingers in front of him, showing offthe perfect candy cane striped design the manicurist created—alternating red and white with tiny gold accents.
He stares at my hand like it might bite him. “Are you seriously asking me about nail polish right now?”
“Why not?” I shrug, admiring the glossy finish. “You seem to have opinions about everything else I'm wearing.”
The elevator doors slide open, and he steps inside without answering. I follow him in, not ready to let him escape that easily.
“It's festive,” I continue, turning my hand this way and that as the doors close behind us. “Candy cane inspired. I thought about getting little Christmas trees, but this felt more...me. Who doesn’t like long, hard, sugary sweets?”
He's pressed himself against the far wall of the elevator, as if trying to put as much distance between us as possible in the small space. His eyes keep darting to my hands, then away, like he's fighting some internal battle.
“So what do you think? Too much?”
“I think,” he says slowly, pressing the button for my floor and then his own, “that you're playing a dangerous game, Hennessy.”
