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His strong arms around me make me so safe and cozy that I almost want to drift off back to sleep. But I don’t let myself. I want to savor this moment, enjoy it for as long as I can. After all, in just a few hours, we’ll be back on a plane, on our way back home. Home, where…
I close my eyes firmly. Let’s not think about that.
But now my mind is buzzing and I shift, try to move Greyson’s arm off me so I can get up. But even in his sleep, his arm repositions itself around me, holding me more firmly.
When I move his arm the next time, he kisses the back of my neck. “Morning.”
I turn to kiss him on the cheek. “Morning.”
I slink around so that we’re lying down facing each other, nose tip to nose tip. His coal-brown eyes can’t decide between being open or closed. Either way, they look happy, a bit dazed—probably how I look too.
“So,” I say.
“So,” he says.
It’s become our thing, our saying, stupidly enough. When we want to leave, stay, or just escape for a quickie, it always starts the same.
“So.” “So…”
This time, I don’t realize why I said it until I continue, “About today—”
He frowns. We’ve done a good job at not mentioning it, until now. Now, there’s no more escaping it.
“You’re right.” He shifts his position so he’s more upright. “We should get going. I hate being late for a plane, even if we are taking a friend’s jet.”
“Oh.” I grin. “We are?”
He grins, too. “It’s an old family friend’s. Though he parks it at the airport, and we still have to go through security and all that.”
I sigh, mock-scandalized. “Whatever is the point of being a multimillionaire if you still have to go through security like a peasant?”
He chuckles, kisses me on the corner of my mouth.
I steal a kiss, then roll out of bed before he can catch the expression on my face. The thought I haven’t dared voice, even to myself: What if we delayed going back? What if…
Forget it, Harley.
“So eager to leave?” Greyson jokes from behind me.
There’s something in his voice that makes me turn his way, but by the time I peer at him he’s already got his gorgeously broad back to me, pulling on his t-shirt.
The next hour or so is a flurry of packing, dressing, kissing, and nibbling on the final breakfast pancakes and sausages the staff brought us.
“I’m going to miss you,” I tell Maria, clasping both her hands warmly.
“And we are going to miss you too!” she says, with enough enthusiasm that she actually seems like she means it, isn’t just getting paid to. “You and Mr. Storm are quite the couple.”
“Oh.” I laugh. “We aren’t… It’s not…” Seeing her forehead crinkle with confusion, I force a smile. Just end the conversation. “Thanks.”
Luckily, Greyson’s in the bathroom, shaving and doing who-knows-what-else man stuff.
Maria leaves soon after, with a final hug goodbye, and then it’s me and Greyson, in a cab on the way to the airport. Greyson’s head is turned to the window. Both of us are silent.
“This was nice,” he says quietly, at some point.
“Almost getting killed by a fer-de-lance snake, bumbling around the rainforest after Russel, nearly getting our limbs eaten by a grumpy mother puma.” I give a joking sigh. “Ah yes, getting nostalgic already.”
He slings me a smirk. “Goof.”
I can’t resist the earnestness in his eyes, sigh for real this time. “OK. You’re right. This was…” I clasp his hand. “Amazing. I definitely haven’t thanked you enough. I’m not sure I can. This was the experience of a lifetime. Working with you and the team has been incredible. And this gorgeous hotel, just… Thank you.”
Greyson’s smile is off, and he peels his eyes away what seems to be too soon. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, too. And will be, I hope.”
As he releases my hand, I lift my eyebrows. “Is that your way of saying that I’m hired, not just on a transitional basis? Don’t you already have a cinematographer, though?”
“Gabriel’s been muttering about retiring for years now,” Greyson says. “Besides, you’re good—really good. You’ve got an eye for the frames, for pacing. Even watching the shots we got on your camera”—I blush, thinking of the last time we watched them, naked in bed together two nights ago—“I can see they’re gold.”
“Good, I just…”—How can I say this without it being awkward?—“want to be sure that this isn’t… you know…”
The brightness on Greyson’s face is snapped out in an instant. “You really think I’m that kind of guy?”
“No, I just—”
“Forget it.” His head swings away, his tone suddenly flat. “Either take the job or not. Up to you.”
“I’ll take it,” I say.
“Good,” he says.
And the rest of the ride to the airport is in silence. Once we’re inside the airy window-walled building, Greyson is all business. We get checked in, go through security in what seems like a couple of well-planned, efficient minutes. Greyson has some frequent flier or premium customer card that gets us through easily.
