Her fingers trace an invisible pattern on the edge of the tub, and her voice drops to a whisper. “It’s just hard sometimes. It would take such little effort for them to show they care about us, but they just don’t do it. Part of me thinks it’s because deep down, they really don’t.”
A dozen questions push against the back of my throat.What was it like growing up like that? What was it like at boarding school? How could herparents choose their lifestyle over their kids?I find myself thinking about Ford, about how he would give up Cove,give up everything he’s built, in a split second for Poppy if he needed to. He would choose being a father over everything else, and we all know it. So how could Madeline’s parents choose their careers, and their lifestyle, over their kids?
I wish I could ask her every question that’s swirling in my mind so I could know more about her, but Madeline stands, water slipping down her skin in slow trails. She grabs her towel from the floor, wrapping it tight around her chest before glancing back at me. “I think that was more than five minutes,” she says, smiling. “It’s getting late, I’m tired. We should probably get ready for bed.”
I nod, even though every cell in my body wants to ask her to stay a little longer so we can keep talking.
The bathroom door opens with a soft click, and I glance up then immediately wish I hadn’t.
Madeline steps out wearing a pale gray tank top and sleep shorts, both soft and fitted in that dangerous way that should look casual but absolutely doesn’t. The fabric clings just enough to hint at her pebbled nipples, the smooth line of her stomach, the gentle sway of her hair that’s now down and loose around her shoulders. And fuck me, but it’s just as bad as the black lace. Maybe worse.
I shift against the pillows, trying to look casual as she crosses the room. “I didn’t know which side you’d want,” I say, finding the ability to speak. “Is this okay?”
She nods quickly, avoiding my eyes. “Yeah. That’s fine.”
Her voice is quiet, a little tight. She’s nervous, but I don’t think it’s because she doesn’t trust me. I think she just…feels it too. Whatever this thing is that keeps circling between us.
It’s crossing boundaries, and we both know it. Sharing a room, sleeping in the same bed—it’s too close for two people who barely know each other, especially considering I’m her boss and she’s my employee, and this whole weekend blurs every line that’s supposed to stay clear.
She slips under the covers, careful to keep to her side of the bed. The sheets rustle and I immediately feel the warmth of her, making my pulse kick up. For a moment, neither of us speaks.
I tell myself to stop watching the way the lamplight catches on her hair, but my eyes betray me. She looks too damn good sitting next to me—long, loose hair, soft skin, that familiar frown line between her brows as she fluffs her pillow, pretending to be entirely unaffected.
“You okay?” I ask, just to fill the silence.
She glances at me, startled. “Not really. It’s…weird, sharing a bed.”
I smile. “For the record, I’m a perfect gentleman in my sleep.”
Her lips twitch, the smallest ghost of a smile. “I somehow doubt that.”
The banter helps, lightens the air, even as the tension lingers. She settles in, tugging the blanket higher.
Eventually, her breathing evens out, soft and steady, and I find myself staring at the ceiling, wide awake. I’m hyperaware of every small movement she makes, every shift of the sheets, every sigh.
And when she rolls slightly toward me, her knee brushing mine, I stop breathing altogether.
I could move. I should move. But I don’t. Because this—her warmth, her nearness—feels like the calm I didn’t know I’ve been needing.
And that realization alone is enough to keep me awake for the rest of the night.
SIXTEEN
Madeline
For a few blissful seconds, I stretch under the soft white sheets, sinking deeper into the plush mattress, letting the rich scent of coffee drift through the room. And then it hits me…this isn’t my bed.
My eyes flutter open. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with what my body already knows. I’m sharing a hotel room—a bed—with Jesse Winters. For one terrifying second, I replay every moment from last night, praying I didn’t do or say something mortifying.
No such luck.
I got into a jacuzzi in my bra and underwear with my boss.My boss. What in God’s name was I thinking?
And then I see him sitting shirtless in the armchair across the room, legs stretched out in gray joggers, laptop balanced on his thighs, bare feet crossed at the ankle. His thick brown hair is perfectly mussed from sleep and he’s wearing glasses, black rimmed. He’s criminally attractive. My stomach does a traitorous flip. Of course, he’s one of those men who look even hotter in the morning.
He’s focused on his screen at first, but when I shift, his eyes lift and meet mine. “Morning, Mads,” he says, slipping off his glasses. His voice, low and rough from sleep, curls through my stomach.
I make a sound somewhere between a groan and a hum, dragging the sheet up higher around me, because my brain is still trying to reconcile my morning with Jesse half-naked in my hotel room.
