Damn. He was alone. I was alone with Laurel Riley.
“Can I offer you a drink, Mr. Riley? Prosecco?”
“Look, I’ve had a long day…”
“That’s why you need a drink.”
He frowned at me, then blew out a breath. “Whatever.”
I reached for his suitcase, and he jumped back as if I’d electrocuted him.
“My apologies. I’m just going to take this. Please, come in.”
He followed me to the bar. I wheeled his suitcase to the stairs and took another bottle of bubbly out, bypassing the one I’d drunk from. I couldn’t pour Laurel Riley a glass from an already open bottle, could I?
“Your people will be joining you later?” I asked as I popped the cork into my palm.
“For the last time, it’s only going to be me.” He lifted his slim, elegant hand, and I gazed at his incredibly capable fingers that I’d watched move over guitar strings… Laurel rubbed his forehead, looking exasperated.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Riley. You must be tired. Did you just arrive in the country? Your tour is done, right? How’s the construction on your property? It’s a great place you got up there.”
He stared at me for a few seconds.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “Tour’s done. There’s been an…incident…with the chalet.” He waved in the direction of the window. “We don’t have a functioning bathroom at the moment.”
He grimaced, looking pained, so I handed him the glass, and he threw the contents back in one gulp.
“That’s what I get for listening to my pompous prick of an architect,” he said. “He hired a bunch of fancy-ass contractors from the city, and everything was late, and now the main bathroom looks like there’s been an earthquake. So. Yeah.”
As he spoke, his scent reached my nostrils, and I inhaled it greedily. I hadn’t smelled him in months, not since he’d been in Beauville the last time, and even then, I’d only caught whiffs of him in the hallway upstairs. Laurel always smelled of strawberries to me, and something creamy, maybe a hint of vanilla, white chocolate… Strawberries. I loved strawberries.
Except the beautiful, sweet-smelling omega of my dreams looked like he was planning a murder.
He must be steaming mad, coming to Beauville to relax after years on tour, only to find he had nowhere to stay. I pointed at his glass.
“A refill?”
He eyed the bar behind me. “Can you bring the bottle upstairs?”
“Sure.”
He walked toward the stairs with the empty glass in hand and reached for his suitcase.
“Let me take that for you, Mr. Riley.”
“Thanks.”
He went first, and I followed him, carrying his luggage in one hand and the prosecco bottle in the other.
As Laurel climbed the stairs, his ass cheeks bunched up and stretched in a mesmerizing way. Those dark jeans were sinfully tight. Such a gorgeous little butt…
“Stop staring at my ass, Montgomery,” he said.
He didn’t look back. He couldn’t know for sure I’d been looking. Could I pretend I didn’t hear his comment?
He paused on the landing on the second floor and gestured for me to go first.
I got a strong whiff of his strawberry scent and swallowed a groan.
