“Sounds good.” She takes out her phone, too. “Are you happy taking our plane?”
“I’m not sure. Are you planning to throw me out over the Remarkables?”
“I’ll make sure you have your own parachute, don’t worry.” She types it into her calendar. “Shall we say two p.m. at Auckland airport?”
“Sounds good.” I type it in. “Shall I book a hotel in Queenstown?”
“Blackridge is over an hour away, and it’s too far to drive every night. The road’s rough, and the weather’s unpredictable.”
“Sounds delightful.”
“Oh, you’re a North Island softie, are you?”
“I prefer a proper mattress and room service, if that’s what you mean.”
“I bet you haven’t slept in a tent since you were a teen.”
“Damn straight.” My eyes widen in alarm. “Jesus, we’re not going camping, are we? I’m not staying anywhere without running water and a bathroom.”
She snorts. “We need to be out on the paddocks at sunrise. We’ll stay at Shepherd’s Cottage. It’s been renovated, so it should suit even you, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“As long as I don’t have to share my bed with a sheep, I’ll be fine.”
She rolls her eyes and slides her phone into her purse.
“You sure you’re okay being away over Valentine’s Day?” I ask.
“Just another day for me,” she says.
“No admiring beau that needs entertaining?”
“Well, no, because I’m not from Regency England.” She throws me an exasperated look. “What about you? Don’t you have Mrs. Right waiting to cook you the perfect meal before she screws your socks off?”
“Unfortunately my socks will be staying firmly on. Especially if you’re forcing me to wear rubber boots.” I blow out a breath, irritated beyond measure by everything that’s happening. Talk about death from a thousand paper cuts. “This is a fucking nightmare.” I realize too late how that sounds—as if I’m talking about going with her.
She reddens. “Right.” I open my mouth to correct myself, but she continues, “Tell me about it. I wonder how many ways I’m going to have to pay for making the worst decision of my life?”
Ouch. I narrow my eyes, but she doesn’t notice as she gets to her feet and picks up her briefcase. “I should have let Brielle go with you,” she snaps.
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I love my sister too much to make her put up with you for longer than thirty minutes.”
I rise to face her. “So instead, I’m stuck with you, Miss Vanilla Cupcake.”
Her eyes flare, and she pokes me in the chest with her finger. “Don’tcall me vanilla.”
She’s not wearing heels today, and when I move closer to her, I have to look down a fair way. Her lashes are unbelievably pale and fine. But her upper lip has the same Cupid’s bow. The tiny mole I kissed sits above it. And she smells of the same perfume she wore that night.
I can still remember how she tasted. And the sounds she made when she came.
“Not a single thing about you is vanilla,” I murmur. Then, conscious she might interpret that as softening toward her, I add, “You’re more like wasabi. One mouthful and everything in my life explodes.”
That earns me a glare. “You didn’t have to say yes,” she points out tartly. “I distinctly recall you booking the room.”
So it’s all my fault now? “I’m not denying there was some attraction. But you’re right, I wouldn’t have done it if I’d known who you were. You took that choice away from me. Can you imagine how that would look the other way around?”
She drops her gaze and reddens. That’s hit home. The idea of a man lying to a woman to get her into bed is abhorrent. But why is it different if the roles are reversed?
