Seriously, Quinn?
I’mnotwearing that while sharing the same air as Raffael, let alone the same cabin. But the rest of the bag’s clothing contents—underwear, socks, and a midriff workout sweater—don’t offer much alternative than me sleeping in the suit I’ve worn all day.
It’s such a stupid thing to test my composure after everything I’ve been through. Yet here I stand, staring at the silk chemise as if it’s the last item on a checklist to mental collapse.
I’ve taken tonight’s revelations with relative decorum minus the minor tantrum in the office. I didn’t blow Raffael’s cover and risk Quinn’s life by breathing a word of this mess to my best friend, despite her being my only lifeline. I didn’t even dig in my heels about the shared cabin arrangement.
But this? All the exposed skin when my suit has basically functioned like armor?
Raffael shoves to his feet, his laptop discarded on the lounger, and treks toward the rear of the cabin. A narrow corridor separates the space, two doors on either side. He disappears into one on the right.
I’m still contemplating whether I can sleep braless beneath my blouse with my trousers on when he returns, tossing a swath of material at me.
It hits my chest, and I fumble to catch it before it falls.
Soft cotton. Gray. A large T-shirt. Worn in, yet clean.
For a split second I consider thanking him.
Then he says, “You can save the silk for the honeymoon,” and all hope for civility is lost.
My fingers curl into the shirt as I bite back a scathing retort, barely having the restraint to replace it with a muttered, “Where’s the bathroom?”
He jerks his head toward the corridor he came from, indicating the doors on the left. “Yours.” Then nods to the identical ones on the opposite side. “Mine.” His laptop becomes his sole focus again. “If you walk into the wrong room in the middle of the night don’t be surprised if you see something you don’t anticipate.”
“Relax. It’s not like I’d be able to make out your three inches in the dark.” I snatch my bag from the bed and storm into my bathroom, locking the door behind me.
The quiet inside is deafening. The isolation soul deep.
I stand in the surrounds of more pristine whites and creams, the shower luxurious and trimmed in gold, the sink gleaming under warm downlights.
Emotion gnaws at me, threatening to devour.
Like hell I’ll let that happen.
I discard my clothes as if they’re offensive, every undone button and lowered zipper a small act of disarmament I fight to ignore. I don’t even pause to dwell on how demeaning it is to tug on Raffael’s shirt. I just do it, letting the buttery-soft material rest against my naked chest.
Sleep will help.
It has to.
I’ll wake up refreshed. In a better mindset. Ready for battle. At least that’s the plan, until I meet my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself.
The person staring back at me isn’t the emboldened interim CEO I sculpted from years of control and poise.
She looks wrecked—pale, glassy-eyed, hair like it lost a bar fight. AkaBride of Chuckyif Tiffany went on a three-day bender, skipped her flat iron, and doubled her instability.
I wash my face. Brush my teeth. Blink back the tears stinging behind my lashes.
At one time, the thought ofthe Raffael Cavalloseeing me like this would’ve killed me.
Now? I step out of the bathroom with my head held high.
He watches me, probably on the scout for any new telltale signs of weakness. But I don’t meet his gaze. It’s enough to feel his attention coasting over me, looking for cracks.
I return to the bed, remove the garment bag, and rest it on the office desk, then climb under the covers without making a scene.
I roll onto my side and turn my back, my lungs filling with the scent of him. It’s everywhere—the sheets, the pillow—all expensive cologne, woodsy undertones, and a tsunami of masculine energy.
