Shut it down, Margot. You’re not here for a romp in the sheets.
I step aside and gesture to my bed, since my brain so kindly suggested it. “Did you want to sit?”
He studies me for another minute, intense blue eyes searching my face, the purple streaks fully gone from the whites of his eyes now, even if it’s lingering the barest amount on his face, then takes three steps into the room, turns, and plants his wet-toweled ass on my quilt.
His thighs spread, and the towel gapes.
I keep my eyes trained on his face like the professional I am, absolutely certain that if I looked down at that gaping towel, he’d have it positioned just right for me to see nothing, and also absolutely certain that he’d smirk at catching me looking.
This game is so obvious.
He wants to throw me off by having a conversation where he’s nearly naked. Probably thinks his body is one of the world’s most magnificent wonders, and he’s probably had women fall for thisI’m naked and inherently vulnerable now, so you can trust anything that comes out of my mouthpsychological bullshit.
Butgod, I want to look.
And it’s making me tingle in places I can’t be tingling during this conversation.
“You gonna sit too?” he asks.
“No, thank you.”
He lifts a shoulder, drawing my attention to a long, thick scar across his still-damp skin. “Whatever makes you happy.”
What would make me happy is not having this conversation. But since that’s not an option now— “What do you want?”
“How much are you going to give me?”
“You want a number?”
He scowls. “I’m not for sale. I want information.”
“About?”
“Why you’re here.”
This week has been interesting. I prepped myself well to work in housekeeping—I can make a bed, clean a bathroom, and I take an odd satisfaction in dusting, even if it’s taken a few days to realize I’m beingtoometiculous and need to work faster, not deeper—but more than the job itself, more than this opportunity to experience the hospitality industry as low-level staff interacting with guests, walking around more or less invisible in a housekeeping uniform is a good way to hear things.
I was under the distinct impression that Theo Monroe and Grey Cartwright, two of the triplets’ best friends here locally, were the more hands-on owners with the retreat center and that Jonas Rutherford wouldn’t be anywhere in the vicinity. And that a substantial part of the staff would know the triplets.
That’s proven true.
I hear things. File them away. Slowly so far, but it’s happening.
And I definitely haven’t heard anything about Rhys other than that half the housekeeping staff thinks he’s hot.
But my body’s still a little worn down from the nonstop physical activity, and I’d like to fling myself onto the couch in the living room with a pint of ice cream and binge-watch home renovation shows instead of having this conversation.
Not that I can when the couch is his bed.
I rub my brow and frown at him when I’d like to pace the room.Don’t pace, Margot, it shows weakness, my father always said. “I have no intention of causing harm to the triplets.”
“Don’t you?”
“No. I don’t. Why would I want to hurt them?”
“Because they could destroy your family.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, no, a rich and powerful man cheated on his wife and has secret grown children squirreled away somewhere. Don’t let the news know, or his life will be over.”
