“You wear glasses,” I say, trying to force the memory of Jesse in his boxer-briefs from my mind. “I’ve never seen you wear them in the office.”
He grins, a lazy, half-awake grin that should be illegal. “I wear contacts, but I forget them at home.” He picks the glasses up from where they rest on the arm of the chair and slides them back on, eyes flicking to mine. “So, what do you think, Mads?” he asks, tone low and teasing. “Hotter with or without?”
My stomach does a slow somersault. “You’re fishing,” I tell him, trying and failing to suppress a smile.
“Maybe,” he says. “But I like to start my mornings with positive feedback.”
“You seem pretty sure it will be positive,” I note.
“Ouch,” he says. He looks wounded, but his grin gives him away.
I push myself upright, suddenly conscious of the fact that I must look like a mess. Jesse is still looking at me, calm and unreadable, but suddenly it occurs to me that he was watching me sleep. The thought sends a strange little jolt through me. No, not strange. Dangerous.
I should definitely look away. Instead, my eyes betray me, trailing over the lean lines of his chest, and the way the morning light lands on the muscles of his abdomen. He’s not even flexing, but every inch of him is carved, tanned, and effortlessly masculine.
Saliva gathers in my mouth. God, get a grip, Madeline.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, like he hasn’t just short-circuited my nervous system. He gestures toward the sitting area by the window where a breakfast awaits on a silver tray—eggs and toast, coffee, and a glass bowl of fruit that looks like it came from a painting.
“You ordered breakfast?” I manage, finding my voice again.
He sets his laptop aside and stands. And just like that my brain malfunctions all over again. Every movement is easy and fluid. His joggers hang low, revealing a faint line of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
“Of course I did,” he says, walking toward the window. “Can’t have you fainting halfway through the day. We’ve got parents to charm and politicians to survive.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
He chuckles, pulling out a chair for me like he’s been doing it all his life. “Come on, Mads. You’ll need caffeine for the battlefield.”
I slide out of bed, remembering a little too late that I’m still wearing my tank and shorts. My feet touch the carpet—soft as a cloud—and I follow him to the table, acutely aware of my racing pulse.
The view outside steals my focus for a second. Bluewater sprawls out beneath us, glittering and alive in the morning light, the harbor coming to life. Jesse pours orange juice into two glasses, handing one to me like he’s already decided I’m not allowed to lift a finger today.
“Thanks,” I murmur, fingers brushing his as I take it. The contact is fleeting but enough to send a tiny spark up my arm.
He sits down across from me and leans back, glass in hand. He watches me with that maddening, calm confidence in those hot as fuck glasses. “You sleep okay?”
I stab a piece of melon with my fork. “As well as one can when sharing a bed with their boss.”
His grin deepens. “Maybe we don’t mention that part to HR.”
I wince, groaning around the mouthful of melon. “Stop, please,” I plead. “I can’t deal with the thought of my new co-workers finding out about our sleeping arrangements.”
“I’d have to tell them that you were the one who booked the hotel, I’m just an innocent bystander in all this. Seems a little suspicious, Miss Color-Coded Sticky Notes.”
I pick up a blueberry and take aim at his head, but he ducks just in time, cracking up.
I can’t help but laugh too. “You’re never going to let the sticky notes thing go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
He’s teasing, but the same unspoken tension that’s been following us all week lingers, between the banter and the glances that last a little too long.
I spear another bite of fruit, trying to focus on the food instead of the man sitting across from me—impossibly good-looking, bare-chested, smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
The silence stretches—not awkward, but thick—until he finally breaks it. “Are you feeling any better about tonight?”
I exhale, setting down my fork. “Not at all. I’m terrified.”
