Dane didn’t need to finish that, to say the obvious—that I had so little experience, there was no chance I could jump into something casual with ease. And he would be right about that.
Only a few fantasies of him, and a single time having sex on his private jet, and I’d already started to think about the feeling of his hand in mine, the way it felt when he said my name.
Notthings you think about when you’re in something casual.
The sobs were already pushing at the back of my throat as he went on, trying to soften the blow, explaining every reason why this would be a bad idea. I wanted to fall apart then, but I held it together, nodding and saying things like,of course, andI understand, until the engineer came—one from London, apparently, hurrying to the site to do a favor to the great Dane Rourke. Then we were on a new jet, right back on the path to Amsterdam, though we’d be arriving much later than planned.
And now—now I let it out, crying hard and fast into my hands.
Not because of what happened, but because Dane regrets it. And because he made it clear that it wouldn’t ever occur again. And because, stupidly, I’d thought…what? That sex with a man twice my age, in a completely different tax bracket, could be the start of something, instead of a single, passing mistake?
For him, what happened will just be a blip on his radar, a moment he won’t even remember in a year.
I give myself four minutes to fall apart, three minutes to breathe and splash cold water on my face, and one more minute to settle before I shakily walk back out to the lobby.
Where I see Dane standing at the counter, looking hugely dissatisfied with the attendant.
“…must have been a mistake with whoever made the reservations,” the attendant is saying through a thick Dutchaccent. A fresh flush of anxiety rolls from my head to my ankles. Obviously,Imade the reservations.
There was no mistake—I’m sure of that. At least, I think I am. I might be more sure if my entire body wasn’t still buzzing from the crying session and everything that came before it.
Then Dane says, “There was no mistake. My assistant doesn’t make mistakes. You can fix this now by finding us another room.”
The attendant raises his hands like he’s being held up. “I’m sorry, sir, there’s no other room available. We’re all booked up for the conference, and we already vacated this suite for Ember at the last minute?—”
“For fucks’ sake,” Dane growls, turning around and reaching for his phone, but he stops short when he sees me.
I realize, with his gaze on me, that it must be obvious that I’ve been crying.
It only takes a split second, but Dane makes his decision—rather than pulling his phone from his pocket and making whatever call he planned to, he just sighs, turns back to the counter, and plucks the key card from the attendant’s outstretched hand.
“Contact your supervisor,” he says, his voice deadly cold. “And find a way to make this right.”
With that, he turns and walks toward the elevators, and I have no choice but to follow after him.
Chapter 11
Lucy
Sharing a suite with Dane hasn’t been as uncomfortable as I thought it might be.
The suite itself is massive—easily bigger than Aunt Ruby’s entire apartment—and has two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and two different seating areas. It means that when we got in last night, I was able to go into my room and wallow in a mixture of shame and my own self-pity until I eventually fell asleep.
The next morning, I’d had to face him, but at least then I hadn’t obviously cried just before. I’d gotten up, showered and dried my hair, and pulled on one of the beautiful dresses I bought with his credit card.
Mercifully, it was like how it always is when we’re working together. Dane: quiet and focusing on his own thing. Me: scrambling to get things taken care of when one of the marketing girls texted me, saying she wasn’t feeling well.
Then we left for the convention hall, which was as grand and beautiful as the hotel it was connected to. At first, I’d walked through the main concourse with him, but it was too much. Looking at pleasure gels and lotions, vibrating contraptions andhyper-realisticdildos, all with his stormy, gray presence at my side.
Now, at least, I have the buzz of the convention and my own responsibilities to keep me from focusing too much on Dane Rourke. While he’s been moving from conference room to conference room, even taking the stage to talk to a crowd of over a thousand different attendants, I’ve been firmly stationed at the marketing booth in the main hall.
The marketing girl wasn’t justnot feeling well—apparently, she’d had a bad plate of sushi and was bent over the toilet. Her roommate was struggling to manage everything herself at the booth. It was a good thing for both of us—at least, I think—when Dane asked me to come down and help with the marketing outreach, rather than accompany him throughout the day as originally planned.
“Seven intuitive modes,” Akela says, her long, dark hair in a sleek ponytail as she holds one of our vibrators up proudly. “With more modes added as it learns the user.” She stops, presses her finger on the toy, and shows how it glows gently, before adjusting to the new pressure.
“Wow,” the woman watching says, her mouth opening as she glances at the older woman beside her. “That isspectacular.Who can we talk to about stocking these? We’ve got a pretty big pleasure store in Sydney and need some new product.”
Akela points them in my direction, and I talk them through the logistics. I’d much rather be doing this piece of it rather than holding up the toys, trying to talk through the terrible awkwardness I’d feel.
