Page 31

"The wording in section four is unacceptable," Victoria said, keeping her voice level despite the unstable rural connection. "I want the penalty doubled. If he breaches the non-compete, the consequences need to be catastrophic."

As she reached the end of the landing, she glanced through the open doorway of Room 6. Inside, Emma was losing a war with a king-sized fitted sheet. Her curls were sticking to the back of her damp neck, her cheeks flushed crimson from the stifling humidity as the elastic corner snapped off the mattress for the third time, drawing a muffled curse from her throat.

Without breaking her stride—or her sentence—Victoria walked straight into the bedroom.

"No, we do not concede the intellectual property rights," Victoria said coolly into the microphone, stepping up to the opposite side of the mattress.

Emma stopped working, her hands tangled in white cotton, staring at her.

Victoria didn't even look up. Moving with effortless, lethal efficiency, she caught the loose corner of the sheet, pulled the linen taut, and anchored it cleanly under the mattress. Before Emma could blink, Victoria reached for the pillows, stripping the wrinkled cases off in two fluid motions, gathering the used laundry into a neat bundle beneath her arm, and stepping back out into the hall toward the chute.

"Finalize it and send the draft to my inbox before noon," Victoria commanded into the air. "Goodbye."

She tapped her earbud, severing the connection with New York, and turned around. Emma was standing in the doorway of Room 6, her mouth slightly open, looking at her in total bewilderment.

"What?" Victoria asked, smoothing the front of her blouse.

"You know how to strip a bed," Emma said slowly.

"I am capable of executing basic household tasks."

Emma leaned against the doorframe. The confusion on her face slowly morphed into a reluctant, fascinated amusement. She looked at Victoria’s hands, then back up to her eyes.

"You really are full of surprises, Victoria."

The compliment hung in the stifling air. The tension between them spiked, sharp and undeniable. Victoria felt a dangerous flutter in her stomach. She wanted to step closer. She wanted to press Emma against the doorframe and see if she tasted like coffee.

Instead, a drop of sweat slid down Victoria's temple. Emma noticed it immediately. Her amusement shifted into a smug grin. "You are sweating. Told you."

"I am glowing," Victoria corrected, lifting her chin.

"You are melting," Emma countered, crossing her arms. "There is no shame in admitting defeat. Go change into something breathable."

"My wardrobe was assembled for a specific climate, not whatever anomaly this is. And I packed for three days, remember. Staying this long wasn't on the agenda."

Victoria stared at her. The heat was becoming truly unbearable, and the damp fabric clung horribly to her shoulder blades. Hating to lose an argument was second nature to her, but physical discomfort was rapidly breaking her resolve. Returning her rental car earlier in the week to eliminate redundant travel expenses suddenly felt like a massive mistake.

She pressed two fingers against the bridge of her nose, letting out a tight, reluctant breath.

"Emma."

Emma paused, turning back with an arched brow, clearly caught off guard by hearing her actual name for once. "Yes?"

Victoria hesitated, the request scraping against her throat like sandpaper. "Do you have errands in town this afternoon?"

"I might," Emma said slowly, her lips already twitching with suspicion. "Why?"

Victoria straightened her spine, attempting to infuse the indignity of the situation with as much executive poise as possible. "Because I need to buy clothing suited for this weather, and I returned my rental car," Victoria said, maintaining her executive poise despite the sweat on her neck. "I require a ride to Oakbridge."

Emma’s face split into a wide, unholy grin. "Wait. Are you asking me to drive you into Oakbridge in Betsy?"

"I am proposing an efficient carpool. Ten minutes, Ms. Hayes." "Deal," Emma said, utterly delighted. "Meet me out front in ten minutes, Sterling. Don't be late."

Forty minutes later, Emma pulled her rusted truck up to the curb on the Oakbridge high street to pick up her passenger. She reached over to push the heavy door open, but the moment her eyes landed on the woman stepping out of the generic clothing store, her brain stopped functioning.

Victoria was wearing straight-leg denim jeans, a plain white cotton t-shirt, and white canvas sneakers. Without the structure of a severe collar or the clean cut of wool, she had nowhere to hide. She looked devastatingly soft, and it made Emma's mouth go completely dry.

Emma's gaze snagged on the white cotton, tracking the dark denim all the way down to the canvas shoes. Her grip on the door handle went visibly slack, her throat bobbing as she swallowed down whatever sarcastic quip she'd prepared. She looked totally short-circuited.