Nate let out a shallow cough, fingers flexing against the flute. His heart was racing faster than his thoughts, his body buzzing. And then—there it was.A reckless voice in his head, sounding an awful lot like hope:Just say it. Let’s not end this tonight. We could text. We could call. Email…
His lips parted, ready to spill the words.
His brain finally caught up.What the hell, Nate?There was no way. The tiny thrill in his chest plummeted. The longer thisdragged on, the more certain it became she’d stumble across his past.
He shifted beneath her, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands, his arms, his hips—like he didn’t know where to put himself, where tobewithout crossing a line he couldn’t uncross. His skin prickled, his pulse still hammering, but now for a different reason.
Ella drew back first, her fingers brushing her hair away from her face, her expression unreadable. “We should probably get this boat back,” she said quietly,
“Right,” he said, reaching out with his free hand to steady the bottle. “Sensible.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ella had committed two crimes tonight.
Grand theft speedboat. And the ongoing felony of pretending she was someone else. The first had been exhilarating. The second was starting to itch beneath her skin.
They stood outside her hotel, the glass sliding doors spilling light onto the pavement. Her hair clung damply to her neck, wind-tangled and wild, and her lips still tingled from the kiss they hadn’t quite finished.
Nate rocked back on his heels, hands disappearing into his pockets. “Well,” he said. “I can officially cross ‘maritime delinquency’ off my bucket list.”
She laughed, a little breathless around the edges. God, he was dangerous. Not in the way she was used to—not with demands or expectations. But because he didn’t push. Because he let her set the pace, let her pretend this was just a night, a moment, something she could walk away from without consequence. Because in twelve hours he’d be gone, boarding a plane back to LA.
For his own good, she told herself. Absolutely. She was saving him from… well, her. Better he leave with a kiss and a story than stay long enough to peek inside her gilded cage.
“So, I guess this is goodbye,” Nate said, voice light, like he was commenting on the weather. But the tight line of his jaw said otherwise.
Allegra clenched her thumbs, stomach twisting. Right. The responsible fade-out. The part where sensible adults smiled,hugged, and preserved the memory unsmudged. She nodded automatically. Her body, however, remained rooted in place, as if waiting for an amendment to the plan.
And then she cleared her throat. “Or… do you want to come up?” The words were out before her brain could veto them. She knew she should let him go, should be the bigger person. But she couldn’t. She wanted him. Just a little longer.
Nate’s brows lifted—half surprise, half restraint.
“Just for a nightcap,” she added quickly. “Or tea. Think I saw a few tea bags on the desk.”
He glanced down the darkened street, then back at her, the faintest wince tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
Relief flooded her so abruptly that she resisted the urge to sag against the concrete archway. “We’ll have to use the stairs. Lift’s busted.”
By the time they reached the seventh floor, Allegra’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps, her pulse hammering in her throat. Behind her, Nate’s breathing was maddeningly even, as if he’d just taken a leisurely stroll.
Allegra shouldered the corridor door open. “Fair warning,” she tossed over her shoulder. “The room looked better online.”
They reached her door, the key refusing to cooperate, as if it too sensed the stakes. She stabbed it into the slot three times before it clicked into place.
“Traitor,” she muttered.
The door swung open. She flicked on the light.
Nate paused on the threshold, gaze sweeping the narrow bed, the small desk, the single window. “Oh,” he said carefully. “I thought it might be—”
“Bigger?” she cut in, already lunging for the back of the chair where her Dior dress was draped. She yanked it free and crammed it into her suitcase and slammed the lid shut.
“Different,” Nate finished, stepping inside.
Allegra turned toward the little wooden hospitality box on the desk. “Mint or chamomile?”
“Definitely mint.”
