Page 47 of Spurred On

So he took her arm and guided her into the hall and toward the stairs. Though she sputtered in protest, he could not let her escape—except to close her door. He needed her, desperately.

“See you tonight, Tibby,” he said with a wave, but he didn’t bother to look back at her because he knew what he’d see. Tibby Pucey, denied what she wanted, was not a pretty sight.

“Honestly,” Sidney muttered as they made their way down the stairs. “Did you really have to involve me in that tawdry scene?”

“What tawdry scene?” he asked, though he knew. “Were you listening at the door?”

“You two weren’t exactly whispering.”

“She was manhandling me.”

“Karma’s a bitch.”

He whirled on her as they came to the bottom of the staircase. “That’s not fair. I’ve never done anything to lead her on.”

“Except date her.”

“One date. That’s all it was.”

“It was enough.”

“And it was ten years ago. Ten years ago. I was just a dumbass kid—”

“Tell me about it.”

“Hardly deserving of a lifetime of being hounded by her.”

“She’ll probably lose interest when you start losing your hair.”

He gaped at her in horror. His hand whipped to his head, a manic instinctual denial. “Losing my hair?”

Sidney smirked at him. She was an evil wench. “Did she really go to your room last night?” she asked.

“Apparently.”

For some reason, she chuckled. “I have to say, I enjoyed seeing that look of fear in your eyes just now.”

He assumed she was referring to Tibby, not his hair. “I was hardly afraid.” A total lie.

He hustled her into the office and shut the door. She crossed her arms and frowned at him. “So what’s this problem with my booking?”

He should probably think something up. An unsigned liability form, a lost invoice for champagne, an extra linen fee for when one of the guests snuck into a host’s room and besmirched his sheets . . . But he couldn’t. There was only one thing on his mind when he was with her. And he had her here. Alone. In a private room.

“You know the problem isn’t with the booking,” he said.

“Then what is it?”

“You know that too.” He prowled toward her until he’d backed her up against the wall. Though her expression was taut, wary, she let him.

“Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked. Her blasé tone was forced, as though it cost her not to warble.

“Yes, I am.”

“Don’t.” Her hand on his chest didn’t deter him.

“Why not?”

“I told you. It’s over.”