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I felt him start against me. This was it. This was the moment of truth. Would he respond? Would he kiss me? Would he?
He walked quickly through the door of the guesthouse and set me on my chair. He was about to go but I reached up, caressing his cheek.
His eyes closed, like a contented cat. He sighed. “Ally…”
“Want to show you so much,” I murmured. I let my hand wander down his neck, trailing my fingers above his collarbone.
He swallowed, hard.
“I still remember how your lips taste,” I said. I ran my finger over them. His tongue flicked out, tasting the skin there, and I was undone.
I leaned forward, pressing my lips against his. Oh, nothing had changed, still that tang of honey, still that softness of his lips and the rasp of his stubbled cheek, still the way he kissed me back gently at first and then greedily, as if I were water and he were lost in a desert, as if I were water and he wanted to drown.
My hands were on the buttons of his shirt, clumsy but determined to uncover his tanned skin, and his hands had found my bre**asts, kneading them with a sweet urgency that made me gasp into his mouth, and push against him.
I wanted nothing more than this, nothing more than him—
And then he pulled away with a groan.
I reached for him, dismayed. “Hunter—”
“Ally, I can’t,” he said softly. “You’re drunk.”
“But—” I protested.
He laid his fingers over my lips and I found I could think of no more words, only of him. I begged him with my eyes not to leave.
“Professionalism, right?” he reminded me.
I nodded glumly, trying to formulate a reasonable rebuttal, but my brain couldn’t come up with anything fast enough.
And then he left.
Well, shit.
EIGHT
A construction company had moved into my forehead.
That was the only possible explanation for all this banging and hammering.
I cracked open an eye, and rued the day I was born.
Usually I was good about drinking enough water to prevent hangovers, but after my fiasco last night, I’d wanted to drop into unconsciousness as quickly as possible. And oh, was I paying for it now.
The light from the window hit my one open eye, and I groaned. And then I groaned again, because even the sound of groaning hurt my head, and then basically I was trapped in a vicious circle of hell.
And as a special bonus bit of torment, I could kiss goodbye any chance of Hunter ever seeing me as a professional. He was probably going to pack me off to Washington on the first train or plane he could book me a ticket on. He was probably going to distribute my photo to all his security people too, to make sure I didn’t go all crazy stalker on him.
I made myself roll out of bed and crawl to the dresser, where I pulled on the most uncomfortable, unflattering outfit I could find. This was my penance. It wasn’t enough.
But before I got fired, I needed to get myself some goddamn coffee. And of course all the single-serving cups that went in my suite’s coffeemaker were gone. It figured.
#
Somehow, I miraculously made my way to the manor and into the kitchen without getting lost or dying from the worst hangover ever known to man (or woman).
The smell of baking pastries only made my stomach roil, and I filled up my coffee mug quickly, grabbing a glass of orange juice as well. If I could just keep that down, my electrolytes might be replenished by the time I was combing the want ads for a new job back at home.
“How’s the head?”
I almost dropped my cups.
There was Hunter, looking good enough to eat in a tight shirt and loose khakis. I blushed, thinking of how I must look in a tattered bathrobe over my frumpy outfit. And after the things I’d said last night—after the things I’d done--
Hunter laughed sympathetically. “Not great, I take it.” He grabbed an egg from the refrigerator and cracked it into my orange juice. His hand wrapped around mine, nudged me towards the fridge. “Just add some Worcestershire sauce to that, and you’ve got a foolproof hangover cure.”
I eyed the cup, my brain torn between confusion, lust, and suspicion. Was he actually feeling this casual? He couldn’t be. I just wished I could think clearly, instead of fighting through the headache and the insistent urge to check out his abs.
“I think I’ll stick to coffee,” I said, my face flushing. I could feel the heat radiating off his body. Why did he always catch me at my worst?
“It’s your head,” he said with a shrug. He leaned closer, his eyes dancing. “Seems like your research methods have been a lot more fun for me than you, on the whole.”
R-rated images danced a tango through my head, and this time, it was my turn to make my excuses and flee.
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