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“You’ll get soaked,” I point out.

“I don’t mind if you don’t.”

So we end up walking. Which is fine until the rain starts to hammer down so hard it’s splashing up off the pavement. We’re about five minutes away from the hotel at this point, and completely sodden, so I pull her into a covered doorway to wait it out.

“Jesus, now that’s creepy,” she says. I look to my left, where a naked male mannequin is propped up against the glass. “I think I preferred the alley.”

“I can still call that car,” I murmur.

Georgia shakes her head, a smile playing on her lips. There are rivulets of water running down her hair onto her face. I reach out to wipe them away, and I can’t fucking pull my hand back. Her skin is damp, soft. And completely freezing.

“You’re cold,” I murmur. I lift my other hand to cup her face, so it’s nestled between my palms. She looks up at me with those wide eyes. Even her eyelashes have droplets clinging to them.

Her lips part. Damn it, I’m desperate to kiss her. There’s a tinge of guilt in that thought, mostly because she doesn’t know who I am. And I’m not good at lies. I grew up with enough of them.

But apparently I’m enough of an asshole not to care.

“Is this okay?” My voice is thick. Because god, this woman smells like rain and flowers.

“Yes.” It’s just a breath. But it’s all I need to hear. I can feel the warmth of her exhalations against my skin, as she puts her hands on my hips as though to steady herself. I pull her closer still.

And then the sound of somebody retching cuts through the night. A man is bent over, his hands on his stomach.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

Georgia starts to laugh, like the guy doesn’t have the worst timing in the world.

“Shall we get out of here?” I suggest.

She nods. Then she tips her head to the side. “Is there a rule about employees and guests going out?” she asks. The question feels out of left field. It takes me a second to even realize what she’s talking about.

“At the hotel?”

“Yes. I don’t want to get you into trouble. I know some places frown at that.”

There’s an edge to her voice that I can’t work out.

“No, no rule,” I reply, my voice raspy.

Her lips pull into that shy smile. “Then would you like to join me in my room for a drink?” she asks. “Right after I change out of this wet dress and into something warm and dry.”

“I would like that very much.” And once we’re there, I’ll work out how to tell her who I am without looking like a complete dickish liar.

The rain eases enough for us to make a run to the hotel. And when we reach the deep red awnings with the golden double H logo that has been the hotel’s brand ever since my great-grandfather’s time, I let go of her hand.

“Although there aren’t rules against staff and guests,” I say to her. “It’d still be better if we go in separately. Go up to your room and I’ll join you in five minutes.”

Because it’s one thing hiding who I am in the streets of London, but as soon as I step in the lobby it’ll be ‘Mr. Hunt’ this and ‘Mr. Hunt’ that, and quite frankly I don’t want her finding out who I am from a concierge.

“Good idea.” She nods. “It’ll give me a chance to dry off.” She gives me a soft glance that I feel right down to my toes, then steps away, still smiling at me. “Five minutes,” she says.

“Five minutes.” I nod.

She’s almost at the revolving door when she stops. For a second I think she’s changed her mind. But then she strides back to me. “You don’t know my room number,” she whispers. Way too loudly.

I do, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I let her recite the number and watch her slowly walk into the hotel, checking my watch to make sure I give her enough time to make it out of the lobby. As soon as I start walking toward the glass door, the doorman greets me by name, and I’m so damn relieved to see she’s already disappeared.

“Did you have a good evening, Mr. Hunt?” he asks.