“You want—I’m not—no!”
“No?”
“I’m not going on a date with you. No.”
“It’s not a date, it’s a business dinner.”
“Hard pass.”
The doormen waiting at the ornate overhang with the outdoor chandelier greet me with a chorus of “Mr. Svensson.” One takes my umbrella from me, and the other grabs the door.
“Oh, I can’t go in through the front lobby, not like this.” She balks. “I use the side entrance.”
“I insist.” I turn to the doorman. “Charles, please take the lady’s pastries to the kitchen manager’s office. We’ll be in shortly.”
“No, I will be in now.”
My fantasies of Winnie and pastry go up in smoke, though, when I notice my horrified staff huddled by the concierge desk. “We called security,” one of them whispers.
I follow their horrified gaze. “Creampuff,” I say, voice low, jaw locked so tight it might crack, “you sicced your granny on me? And here I thought you liked me.”
I’m not flirting.
I’m furious.
Because my lobby—my tower—is full of topless senior citizens with knitting needles, terrifying half my hotel clients. I take pride in my hotels. French antiques sourced myself, bespoke carpeting, and my hand-selected marble foyer backdrop a dozen bare breasts swaying like revolutionary flags.
“I’ve cast three hundred stitches of rage!” her grandmother roars, holding up a half-finished scarf like a battle banner.
“Get rid of them,” I snarl at her.
Winnie takes a nervous step back, eyes wide.
Good—she should be nervous.
“You stole my café,” she fires at me.
“And you threw coffee on me.” My voice is cold. Sharp. “Get these women out of my tower. Now.”
She hesitates. Like she’s considering taking their side.
Of course she is.
“Maybe they have a point,” she mutters.
I stare at her.
“Are you going to whip your shirt off and join them?” I snap.
Her face goes strawberry-jam red as my eyes drag—slowly—from her chest back to her mouth.
Herbreath catches.
I feel it.
I ignore it.
“I wouldn’t. This is—we’re in public.”
