‘Stalker,’ I tease, reaching for my cutlery.
‘Believe me, sweetheart, if I wanted to stalk you, I could.’ He settles back in his chair, staring at me with his usual intensity. ‘If I wasn’t so averse to the idea of marriage after watching my mother make a shitshow of hers, I’d lock you down permanently,’ he jokes.
At least I think he’s joking.
‘And if I wasn’t a workaholic, determined to make my business the most successful subsidiary of my family business, I might just let you.’ I run my fork through the lobster—it’s tender and glistening, steaming faintly in front of me. Or the steam could be emanating from California. He’s positively smouldering.
Silence settles between us as the finality of our situation sinks in. I study him, committing every inch of his face tomemory. The way the light catches his profile, sharpening every carved line. The shadow of emotion that flickers across his face. I can’t read him, not fully—but I get the impression he’s contemplating asking me something real. Something I quickly realise I don’t want to answer. Because this entire trip has been magical, and I don’t want to tarnish it with truths that might change our perception of each other.
‘Want to come back to my suite tonight?’ He flashes me his perfect Hollywood smile. ‘It would be a sin not to fuck you in the rooftop hot tub before we leave.’
‘The rooftop hot tub?’ There’s only one suite that has one of those. ‘Don’t tell me you had The Celeste Suite this whole time?’
‘The one and only.’ His smile spreads into a full-blown grin.
‘Well, what are we waiting for?’ I’m dying to see the inside of that suite. And not just the décor. Because while I’m not ready to exchange more than bodily fluids with California, I wouldn’t mind a sneaky insight into the man who I’ll probably spend the rest of my life wondering about.
Chapter Sixteen
COLE
Tate sweeps my suite before we enter. My passport, wallet and all personal effects that would name me as the owner of the world’s most luxurious casino hotels are all stowed away in the safe. Not that Irish wants to know my true identity. She had her chance tonight to ask. For a long beat, I thought she was going to, but the words never left her lips.
‘Wow, this is exquisite,’ she says, as she spins on her heels soaking in every detail. Her fingers run over the lavish furnishings, inspecting the quality like she’s a professional designer.
‘Ten nights later and you’re still playing it cool, I see—pretending you came for the décor.’ I prowl towards her, closing the distance between us. ‘We both know differently.’
Her familiar laugh permeates the air and stokes something deep in my sternum. I’m going to miss that laugh. ‘I do actually have a vested interest in the décor, if you must know.’
‘I have a vested interest in you.’ The air vibrates between us. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask who she truly is, and where she lives. Because if she still lives in Ireland, we could meet up when I’m there later in the year. I’ll have to moveinto the Dublin Hartmann Hotel for a couple of months to oversee the refurb and ensure the grand reopening goes smoothly before I move onto the next project, a property in Cannes that I’ve been hankering after for months.
Her dark, soulful eyes meet mine. ‘Please don’t make this any harder than it already is.’
I can’t help it. The prospect of letting her leave with no way of contacting her tears me in two. ‘We should swap numbers, just in case we ever vacation at the same time again.’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
She stares at me for a long beat. A hint of sorrow, regret even, creases the corners of her eyes. ‘I don’t vacation—not usually. My life is work. Deadlines. Expectations. My family. There isn’t space for… anything, or anyone else.’ Her fingers twist in the fabric of her dress, betraying nerves she rarely shows.
‘All I’m asking for is a number, Irish.’ Fuck, when did I become so desperate?
‘Exactly,’ she whispers, ‘And, if I give it to you, it won’t stop there. I know myself. I’ll want more. Or you’ll want more. This thing between us has been perfect, but we can’t go back to our real lives and expect it to survive.’
‘Maybe it could survive.’ Why am I pushing her? We both knew what we were signing up for, and it wasn’t this.
She smiles sadly, her huge chocolate eyes flood with what looks like regret. ‘Maybe. But “maybe” terrifies me more than goodbye. Hope sometimes does more harm than good.’
I don’t like it.
Not one fucking bit.
Every bone in my body begs me to argue with her.
But how can I when she’s made feelings crystal clear?
And she’s right.
The odds aren’t in our favour.
Even if we picked up this thing between us later on in the year, we’d only have to say goodbye when I wrap up the Dublin project. Dragging things out for a few months is only delaying the inevitable.
