But I’m not sure if it’s a habit at all.
By the time I get to my room, I’m tired and eager to strip out of my clothes and take a shower. I don’t head into my pajamas, though, and instead opt for jeans and a t-shirt. My social media posts will have to wait for tomorrow morning because I did nab a quick photo earlier of my shake.
Taking a seat behind the desk, I bring my knee to my chest as I open my laptop and prepare myself to write. Admittedly, the inspirational walk in the woods, although rules were broken, fulfilled Gloria’s goal. Ideas are swirling in my head. I don’t write small-town romance, mostly billionaire assholes, but our publisher insists I maybe need to head into another direction. I’m dreading that.
I have one problem tonight, though.
I’m supposed to be writing a spicy chapter. This is my ultimate escape. Where I can do anything I want through a fictitious character. Tonight, it just seems to be a problem, because halfway through, Stone enters my thoughts.
A picture of him pinning my arms above my head against a wall with one hand, while the tips of his fingers glide up my thigh, dragging my skirt with. Our eyes connect while he gives me a warning smirk before crashing his lips onto mine.
I close my laptop in a flash, also with a little force.
Shit.
But wait...
A relieved smile begins to stretch on my lips as a sting forms in my throat from emotion when I realize that he’s invading my thoughts in a good kind of way. It’s been a long while since I’ve experienced that.
I search the room, and the dim lights constrict my chest for a short moment, and although I see a comfortable bed, I know that sleep won’t really happen, just as it never does.
I glance at the clock I see that it’s only eleven, which means the hotel bar must still be open.
Grabbing a sweater and my key, I head straight for some alcohol.
By the time I’m walking into the bar, with its chestnut interior and leather chairs, I’ve decided that a red wine is calling my name. Just as I sit on a stool at the bar, I notice the occupant next to me. Maybe it’s a coincidence or fate just leading us.
Stone looks far too sexy in jeans and a tight dark tee.
“Oh, look at that, Harlow is here. Probably hoping that I was enjoying a drink too.” Stone doesn’t look at me, but I can see his lips tighten around his beer bottle as he takes a sip, and it’s clear he’s grinning.
I indicate to the bartender for my order. “Clearly you read my mind,” I play along.
He turns to me, pleased with my arrival. “What brings you down here?”
I focus on Stone. “I’m not the greatest sleeper, so I’m hoping the wine helps,” I admit. “You?”
“Writing wasn’t really calling to me, and after my workout, I decided to enjoy an excellent IPA.”
“Nothing to do with checking out the staff of your hotel?”
He shakes his head. “I only have a tiny stake in this place. It’s my buddy Holden who runs the show. There is Nash who owns 10%. His parents used to own the joint. They insisted that they would only sell if 10% would stay in the family. He’s gone rogue, though. For me, this is purely an investment that one day I can use to impress someone. Otherwise, nobody knows about my role here.”
My eyes scrunch. “You told me,” I point out.
His eyes brim. “Call it instinct, and I wanted to piss you off a little more when Stuart was arranging your squirrel-hut room.”
I now find that comical. “Well, your secret is safe with me. How did you get into writing? We kind of skipped the conversation that we probably should have had when we were debating the civilization of deer.” I don’t mind making fun at my moments of crazy. I own it.
“Believe it or not, I was valedictorian in high school. Mostly because creative writing managed to get me a few awards. Mix that with hockey and I was the dream kid for colleges to offer me a scholarship. Great at hockey, and they didn’t have to worry about me struggling with grades. Even during my hockey career, I would write recollections of games I played, little things I noticed. Then there was the occasional best-man speech where I had the guests laughing, then in tears.”
My cheeks rise at his admission. “See, you might be more of a romantic than me.”
He shakes his head. “Anyhow, my hockey career ended a few years after going pro. Some asshole hit me behind the knee. Despite physical therapy, I didn’t have it in me to play anymore.”
I nod my head to thank the bartender for my wine but keep my focus on Stone. “I might have searched you on the internet to grab a few facts.”
Stone raises his brows. “Ooh, you know I’m going to bug you about that for a long time.” He turns to look behind the bar then nudges my shoulder with his. “But I kind of searched you too.”
