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“Your boss is getting in this bed with you. Move. Over.”
I moved over because I was nothing if not a slut for his touch, but I wasn’t happy about it. As soon as he’d climbed in next to me, I leaned over and yanked the curtain closed. “What is this about?”
He placed his hand on my upper chest and pushed me back down on my back before looming over me. “Checking in with you. You’re so tense you’re vibrating worse than the engine on this coach. You’ve been this way all day.”
“And you haven’t? Of course I’m stressed. It’s a stressful situation. But I’m dealing with it. Or I was, until someone climbed into my bunk.”
He moved his hand up to caress my cheek. My eyes slid closed against my will. “Reagan… I’m sorry for putting you in this situation.”
I opened my eyes to take advantage of being this close to memorize his face—the exact warm color of his eyes, that freckle in his laugh line I’d grown disgustingly fond of, and the scar that looked like a teeny little starburst right under the edge of his chin that made him moan when I licked it. I swallowed hard. “You didn’t put me in it. I jumped in with both feet. And it’s almost over, right? Honeybridge tomorrow, and then we’ll go our separate ways.”
His eyes widened. “You do remember we’re staying in the same house, right?”
“Sure. You, me, and my parents. And then during the day, you’ll be chilling with Brant and Layla while I’m doing the Wellbridge happy-family fuckery. I don’t think there’ll be much time for… us.” I forced a little smile. “It was nice while it lasted, huh?”
Thatcher leaned in and pressed a kiss to the side of my mouth. “We’ll reconnect back in the city.”
His words surprised me because they sounded genuine and heartfelt, like maybe in this moment, he actually meant it… though we both knew it would never happen.
“Absolutely,” I said automatically, completing the bullshit exchange. I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for his call.
He grinned. “Maybe I’ll show you the view from my penthouse.”
I snorted so loudly I froze for a second, worried I’d given us away. “I’ll show you my view? Is that what you say to lure men up to your place?” I teased. When Thatcher said nothing, I turned to face him. “That was a joke.”
“I know.” He cast his eyes to the ceiling of the bunk, his usual way of indicating that I was being ridiculous, but for just a second, I caught a flash of hurt there that made my stomach flip inside out. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you I was sorry about earlier, with Layla?—”
I frowned and poked him gently in the ribs. “Wait. Go back. Tell me about the view.”
“It’s pretty,” he said, like this explained everything. When I continued to stare at him, waiting, he admitted, “It’s vibrant. Full of life and color. At night, a thousand little lights turn on across the city, and every one of them represents a… a person, with a whole life I know nothing about. Makes me feel like I’m part of something larger.” He cleared his throat. “The apartment’s nice, too. Great investment, obviously. But the view is what sold me on it.”
“Holy shit.” I cocked my head, a smile breaking over my face. “You make it sound amazing. I definitely want to see it.”
And I meant it. I’d seen penthouse views before—dozens of them—but the way Thatcher described his, the cautious excitement on his face as he studied my reaction, made my chest ache with the need to know more about this vulnerable, fascinating facet of an already fascinating man.
“Yeah?” he whispered, sounding unusually raw.
I could practically feel my face softening as a wave of gushy emotion nearly swamped me. “Yeah,” I whispered back.
Even if today was the end of him and me being like this, the fact that he’d trusted me with this part of himself—a part I could tell he didn’t share with many people—filled me with warmth, dispelling the chill that had come over me the moment Layla landed in Omaha and our little bus-bubble popped.
I’d been trying to get some distance from Thatcher to protect myself, but for that moment at least, I didn’t want distance. I wanted to share with him like he’d shared with me. To trust him.
I gripped his hand. “Thatcher, I know this might sound crazy, but I want to tell you… I think Layla stole the branding ideas for the Elustre launch,” I whisper-blurted.
Thatcher blinked. “You… what?” Which, honestly, was a fair response to my abrupt change of topic and mood.
I pushed myself up so I was braced on one elbow while he was flat on his back—which was incredibly distracting, because god, he was gorgeous all splayed out like that—and spoke as quietly as my excitement would allow. “I wasn’t going to say anything until I had a chance to figure it all out on my own. I didn’t want to point fingers at Layla because it was awful when she did it to me, and I wasn’t sure anyone would believe me anyway unless I had proof. But then you told me about the view from your apartment, and I…” Remembered that you trust me. Remembered that even though you can’t love me back, I can still trust you. “I wanted to tell you.”
“Okay,” he agreed cautiously.
“When Layla showed us that presentation earlier,” I whispered, “I had concerns right away. It was professional. Too professional. And I’m not saying putting together a presentation is rocket science, it’s not, but it does take some experience and knowledge of the topic I’m not sure she has.”
“Reagan—”
“So I remembered Nataly telling me that Terrance Fisher, the guy who worked for PennCo until a few weeks ago, had storyboarded an entire social media campaign for the launch and presented it to Layla, but she gave him her whole song and dance about not doing social media. So when I was in your room earlier, I found Terrance’s Instagram, and I DM’d him. He was really nice and really talkative. He described his concept to me, and it sounds exactly like what Layla showed us,” I said. “More than that, he told me some other stuff that happened while she was his manager, and?—”
“Reagan.” He rolled into me, pushing me back into the bed. “Stop. I don’t want to talk about Layla. Not like this. Not now.”
