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“Let’s go straight to the hotel,” he continues with a small yawn. “Get some rest and go see the damage first thing tomorrow.”
I’d done my best to sleep on the plane—and to pretend I was asleep when I wasn’t—to try to keep my wandering mind under control as much as possible. And to avoid any risk of flirtation, accidental or otherwise.
Everything was fine on the drive to the airport and during the long wait at the gate. It had been all business. We passed the time scrutinizing the photos the contractor had sent me and trying to think of ways to get it looking perfect again in the few days we have left.
I only momentarily lost control when Elliot leaned in to point at something in one of the photos and rested his upper arm against mine. It felt so good and comforting and goosebumpy—and so damn sexy—that I was overtaken by the warmth gushing from my chest to my lady bits, and it took me a few seconds to pull away. I had to muster even more willpower than it took to resist snapping up the whole color range of my favorite brand’s new erasable, no-bleed journaling pens when they were on sale.
“Okay,” I tell him. “But just to warn you about the hotel. Don’t go expecting anything fancy.” We nod a thank-you to the flight attendants as we make our way up the walkway then into the jet bridge. “The only place where I could still get two rooms is a Highway Inn. It’s the international a capella championships here this week, and the whole of Plainsville’s booked out for it.”
“The international what?” he asks.
“A capella championships. You know, where groups of people sing together in harmony but without any instrum?—”
“Yes, I know what a capella is. But why on earth are the international championships in Plainsville?”
“Something to do with it being the location of the first a capella performance in the US, or the home of the first group, or some guy who lived there loved a capella and started a competition and it grew to be global. One of those things. Or something. I’m not sure.”
“And here I was thinking you were my expert with the local knowledge.” He arches his back to stretch it out as we walk. “Anyway, I don’t care where we stay. I just really need to lie down. Plane seats kill me.”
“You’re not used to traveling coach anymore, are you?”
He rolls his eyes. “You know you could have booked first class. Or, better still, a private plane. Then we could have probably landed at a smaller airfield that’s closer and had a shorter drive.”
He stands aside to let me step onto the escalator to the arrivals hall ahead of him. As I move past him, he touches my lower back for a fraction of a second. And that’s all it takes to send a tingle up and down my spine. I ignore the heat creeping from my belly to my chest. “This is a nonprofit we’re working on. I figured I should be mindful of the cash.”
“I would cheerfully have paid for it myself to avoid the backache.” He twists to one side to try to loosen it.
“At least the driver’s waited for us.” I point to a man in a dark blue suit who’s holding a handwritten sign that reads “Dashwood.”
When we get into the back seat of the car, I stay as close to the door as I can to keep as much distance from Elliot as possible. We have an hour and a half trapped in this contained environment together, and I don’t need any more forearm flashes or inadvertent brushings of completely innocuous body parts that might send me into an unreasonably wanton frenzy.
The only thing I can do is close my eyes and try to sleep my way to another place where I’m not lusting after my temporary boss who’s my actual boss’s untouchable brother. Or at least pretend to again.
“How will you ever sleep tonight after all the napping on the plane and in the car?” Elliot asks as he holds the door to the Highway Inn open for me.
“Hectic week. Just very tired.” I make my best attempt at a realistic yawn, and gaze around the hotel lobby. Lord, Highway Inns are dull enough at the best of times, but we’ve hit on one that’s shabby too.
“This place can’t have been updated for about fifteen years,” I whisper to Elliot as we wheel our carry-on bags over the uneven tiled floor.
“Don’t care.” He places his free hand on the small of his back. “I just need to lie down. Anyway, this place would have been luxury to us when I was a kid. You might think I’m unhappy if I’m not in first class, but I’ll never forget where I came from.”
And I’m sure he won’t. Max definitely does sometimes when he has me book him helicopters instead of cabs or wants to throw out a designer suit with a hole in the seam rather than get it repaired. He has no trouble embracing the high life.
Elliot’s different, though. In all ways.
“Hi,” he says to the bored-looking woman behind the front desk. “Dashwood.” He hands her his credit card.
As she silently taps her keyboard, Elliot swings his hips, probably to stretch his back. That would have been a perfectly innocent action before last week. But now my head immediately puts it together with the gentle skirt removal.
How quickly things can change.
Hell, what am I talking about? I’ve always known he’s hot. And smart, and a funny tease. But it’s a whole new thing to have to constantly stop myself from grabbing him and trying those exquisitely shaped lips on for size. They’d be the perfect fit. I know they would.
Sullen Front Desk Person slides Elliot’s credit card back to him along with a packet of key cards.
“Room 327. Third floor,” she says with all the joy of a seven-year-old being made to write thank-you letters on Christmas Day. “Enjoy your stay,” she adds, with as much feeling as a robot.
We both stare at her, awaiting the rest of our transaction.
