“That’s right,” he says smoothly, before tapping the spot twice and withdrawing his arm. “Married six years ago this week, actually.”
“Happy anniversary,” the concierge smiles. “On behalf of Winter Pines, I’d like to deliver a little something to your suite as a congratulatory treat.”
“That’s generous but not necessary.” August sweeps his gaze over mine. I’m unprepared and defenseless, falling breathlessly into flecks of olive and brown. “My wife is all the treat I need.”
Fuck, he’s good.
I manage a breathy laugh. “He’s incorrigible,” I say, faux-hitting his chest. Then I’m instantly reminded of the rock hardmarblenessof it and forget to breathe instead.
The concierge offers an entirely fake smile. “You’ll be staying in one of our very best suites—the Wintercrest—overlooking the gardens. Dinner is in the main dining room at seven, and the dress code is formal.”
“Perfect,” August says.
I nod timidly in agreement. It’s going to take me a while to find my feet in this arrangement. My natural setting is sarcasm to the max, but here I have to be polite and becoming. The perfect banker’s wife.
I follow August to our suite, then freeze in the doorway when another vision of luxury unfolds before me.
There’s a real fireplace, plush velvet soft furnishings, a solid wood writing desk, heavy curtains framing large windows. There’s even a bottle of champagne chilling on ice.
Then I turn my gaze to the right and my stomach almost drops out of my vagina, and yes I know that isn’t biologically possible, but it certainly feels like it is.
The door to the bedroom is open, and there’s… Only. One. Bed.
One massive, king-sized, unmistakably singular bed.
“Um…” I start, but can’t locate the words to finish.
August follows my gaze, then clears his throat.
“Is this going to be okay?”
“I, um…”Jesus, where are my words?
“I would call down and ask for a twin but we’re supposed to be married. It might sound a little weird.” He shrugs then looks around the suite. “I could take the couch.”
There’s a note of disappointment in his voice as I follow his gaze. The couch is tiny.
“You’ll break it. I’ll take the couch.”
Silence and the sense that he’sglaringat me makes me turn.
“If you think I’m going to letyousleep on the couch, you need to learn a little more about me and fast.”
The aggression in his words knocks me backward.
“We’ll put pillows down the center of the bed. It’s certainly large enough. That way, we can both sleep in it but it doesn’t have to get too weird.”
He steps into the bedroom while I lean up against the doorframe, one brow arched.
“I think that ship sailed when you sent me half of the Saks Fifth Avenue shirt department.”
He looks appalled. “Oh come on, tell me I don’t have good taste.”
“In shirts, yes…”And ink, and gyms…
“You should definitely try the spa while we’re here,” he says, deftly changing the topic.
I take in his burly shape and raw manliness, again. “Are you, you know, into spas?”
