There’s a surprisingly large closet, and the other door opens into an expansive en suite bathroom, bold black and white with a gorgeous marble shower. There’s like…tendifferent sprayers in the shower. Underanothergiant window stands a massive claw-foot tub.
I’m in heaven. I’ve died and I’m in heaven. I wriggle out of my clothes, eager to wash the trip’s residue off my body, and the shower is steaming hot within a second of turning it on. I toneit down to something that won’t boil my skin and step into the criss-crossing streams of water.
My hair goes up in the elastic I keep on my wrist, and I read through the little luxury bottles of shampoo and body wash. I feel kind of silly having carefully packed away full-size bottles of all my usual products in my carry-on. These are probably way nicer.
The body wash smells like citrus and the rain forest, and I luxuriate in the scent as the water washes over me.
When I’m done, I grab a towel from the rack, and it’s warm, like fresh-from-the-dryerperfectlywarm.
Ofcoursethis place has a towel warmer.
I pause at the mirror to shave and change into my gold hoop earrings, then swipe some fancy moisturizer over my tattoo sleeve, brightening the colors again after the dryness of the plane.
Back in the bedroom, I tip my suitcase over, digging out some briefs before staring at the rest of my clothes.
What thefuckdo I wear to dinner?
What kind of place does Morgan Hunter, billionaire CEO, go out to dinner?
Michelin star, my manager said. I pull out my phone and punch that into the map, scrolling through the hits nearby.
Crap, these places are fancy. All four out of four dollar signs. With dress codes.
I don’t have anything but jeans and sweaters. Jayda had assured me they’d be great for the events. Now, I wish I’d asked about dinner too. Is this just something peopleknowwhen they travel with CEOs?
I flop onto the bed, hoping the answer will come to me if I give my body some time to decompress. I close my eyes, thinking about my options.
It was a mistake.
I wake to a knock at my door and Morgan’s voice saying, “Ready?”
Shit. Shit shit shit. “Uh, almost!”
I opt for dark green jeans and a beige cable-knit sweater, mostly because they’re on top and at least match each other.
I yank the sweater over my head, scrunch my hair, nearly trip pulling on my socks and slipping into my only shoes that aren’t sneakers—slightly beat-up leather loafers—and open the door.
Morgan’s standing there, cool as ever, wearing a lilac off-the-shoulder shirt and matching wide-leg pants, the set showing a sliver of skin between them. She looks as if she just walked out of a magazine.
Her eyes flick down, up. “That’s what you’re wearing to dinner?”
“Yeah?” Oh god, I’m going to drop dead of embarrassment. My cheeks heat. I don’t know what to say. Maybe that I feel too sick to go out and these clothes are my, uh, pajamas?
“Good,” she says. “I like it. Very on-trend.”
She turns towards the hotel room door.
I’m reeling. Morgan Hunter, MorganfuckingHunter, complementedmyfashion sense?
Wait, unless she’s teasing me again?
She’s at least not too embarrassed to be seen with me in public, so… I’m going to count that as a win.
Chapter 9
MORGAN
It’s been a long, long time since I was last out with someone who wasn’t either a career exec or born into money.
