She stirs, rolling onto her back with a soft sound that does things to me it shouldn’t. Her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening when she realizes where she is.
“Morning,” I say.
She turns her head toward me, and even sleep-rumpled and bare-faced, she’s striking. Those hazel eyes without the contacts, her real hair color starting to show through the dye at her roots. She’s beautiful in a way that makes me want to know every secret she’s hiding.
“What time is it?” she asks, voice rough.
“Early. Just past seven.”
She sits up, holding the sheet to her chest, and glances around the room like she’s reorienting herself. Then she looks at me, and there’s uncertainty in her expression that wasn’t there last night. “I should probably go,” she says.
“Or you could stay for breakfast.”
“I don’t want to?—”
“I’m ordering room service either way. You might as well eat.”
She hesitates, then nods. “Okay. Breakfast.”
I call down and order enough food for three people, and when I hang up, she’s already out of bed and heading for the bathroom. I watch her go, appreciating the view, then force myself to get up and deal with the messages that have been piling up on my phone since last night.
Declan’s sent four texts. They’re all variations of the same thing—the Petrovs are pushing again. Dmitri’s been seen in our territory twice this week, making noise, talking to people he shouldn’t be talking to. It’s escalating, and Declan wants to know how I want to handle it.
I’ll deal with it later.
Catherine emerges from the bathroom wearing one of the hotel robes, her face washed and hair pulled back. She looks younger like this, more vulnerable, and I catch myself wondering again what she’s running from that has her this jumpy.
Room service arrives, and we eat at the table by the windows. The city stretches out below us, already busy with morning traffic, and Catherine picks at her eggs while I drink coffee and try not to think about how domestic this feels.
“So,” she says after a while. “Last night.”
“What about it?”
“Are we going to talk about it, or are we pretending it didn’t happen?”
I lean back in my chair and study her. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.”
“Slept with a stranger?”
“Slept with someone I actually like.”
The honesty in that statement catches me off guard, and I find myself smiling despite the weight of everything waiting for me outside this suite. “I like you too,” I say, and it’s more truth than I meant to give her.
She looks at me for a long moment, then goes back to her eggs. “You’re probably busy today.”
“I am.”
“Right.” She finishes eating and sets her fork down. “So should I just…go? Or are we doing this again?”
“Dinner,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “Tonight. Eight o’clock. There’s a place right down the street from here. Catch 22. You can’t miss it.”
“I’ll try to make it.”
“Try?”
She hesitates, and something shifts in her expression. “I’m not staying in New York long. I need to visit my mother’s grave today, and then I’m leaving the country.”
