A puddle of champagne stains the wood of the nightstand, and the glass bottle lies on its side.Don’t ask. I’ll never tell.
One of the glasses has been separated from its stem, and the other lies abandoned on the velvet sofa. Macaron crumbs appear to be embedded into the carpet while Beckett’s clothes and wet towels are lying everywhere. My beautiful bouquet squashed and abandoned after it became one of his props last night and was used to caress every inch of my skin.
I so don’t want to be here when housekeeping arrives.
I make my way to the bathroom, tiptoeing over the debris. I tie back my bird’s nest hair and brush my teeth before covering my nakedness, courtesy of the hotel branded plush robe. As I make my way into the lounge, I hear Beckett’s deep tones coming from the dining room.
I shuffle my way in, my gait impeded by the hotel slippers. A weird quirk, I know, but I don’t like walking barefoot on hotel carpet. The man of the hour, rather the man of many, many hours, sits at the head of the table, talking on his phone. Which reminds me . . . I shuffle out of the room again, grabbing my phone and charger. As usual, the thing is dead, but I’ll use one of the outlets in the dining room.
As I enter again, Beckett is hanging up his phone.
‘You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning.’ My voice sounds like a forty-a-day smoker.
‘I had a few calls to make.’
‘You could’ve done those in your pyjamas.’
‘Except I don’t own any.’
‘Heaven forbid you ever become ill.’
‘That sounded insincere.’
‘You’ll have to excuse me,’ I rasp. ‘I had a bit of a shock this morning. When I woke, I thought I’d killed you.’
‘The raspberries,’ he murmurs with a sexy little smile. A new smile for his repertoire that he unveiled just last night. ‘They were fun while they lasted.’
And they lasted longer than the chocolate. It seems Beckett is quite the fiend for the stuff.
‘Good morning, Mrs Beckett.’ I turn to the cheery voice to find a woman, this time, in a similar uniform as the man from last night. I’m not sure which is more weird; being called Mrs Beckett or being ambushed while wearing nothing but a smile, slippers, and a robe. ‘May I bring you some breakfast or a coffee?’
My mouth works but no sound comes out, though I manage to clasp the gaping towelling.
‘Fruit and perhaps a yogurt,’ Beckett answers on my behalf, checking my expression for a reaction.
‘Coffee, too. Please.’
‘How do you take it?’
I send Beckett a glare because if he saysvery well, I might actually need to murder him.
‘Just black, please.’ Because it’s the kind of morning a girl needs a kick-start.
We’re mostly quiet as our lady butler serves breakfast, just murmuringpleaseandthank youand quiet banalities.
Once we’re alone again, Beckett reaches across the table to snag a strawberry from my plate and pop it in his mouth with an inciteful grin.
‘Are they good?’ I ask, a juicy blueberry poised between my fingertips.
He licks his lips as he answers. ‘Mmm. Very sweet.’
‘Good?’ he asks as I feed the berry between my lips.
I nod obligingly, swallow, then take a sip of my coffee to wash the acidity away. I follow it with a spoon of yogurt, my tastebuds not yet awake enough to handle any kind of acidity, and oh, so sexily miss my mouth.
‘Damn.’ I lift my napkin from my knee as though every one of my breakfasts is served with starched linen napery, when Beckett beats me to it. Leaning across the table, he rubs the drop with the pad of his thumb before bringing it to his own mouth.
‘You missed a bit.’
