The room is beautiful—king bed with high-thread-count sheets, sitting area, enormous bathroom with a soaking tub that could fit three people.
Harper drops her suitcase and turns to face me. "This is too much."
"This is exactly right."
“Are you sure you?—“
"I wanted you comfortable. I wanted you to have space. And I wanted you close." I lean against the doorframe. "All three things can be true."
She's looking at me, brows furrowed. "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want me close?"
"You had a panic attack on the plane."
"That's not an answer."
"It's part of the answer."
"And the rest?"
I push off the doorframe and cross to her. She doesn't back away.
"The rest," I say quietly, "is that I like knowing where you are. I like being able to hear you in the next room. I like— I like having you near me."
Harper's breathing has changed. “I like it, too.”
“Good. We’re on the same page then. Now, unpack. Get settled." I step back before I do something stupid like try to devour her in broad daylight when we have a dinner with Richard Francis in three hours. "We need to leave for the restaurant at six. That gives you—" I check my watch. "—five hours to prepare yourself for the most excruciating business dinner of your life."
"Excruciating?"
"Richard Francis is an ass. His board members are skeptical. And everyone will be watching us to see if this marriage is real or if I've lost my mind."
"Have you?"
"Lost my mind?" I smile slightly. "Absolutely."
I leave before she can respond, closing the connecting door behind me.
Three hours later, I'm in my room getting ready for dinner when I hear water running in Harper's bathroom.
She's taking a shower. I should not be thinking about Harper in the shower.
I should be thinking about the acquisition. About Richard Francis. About the talking points I need to hit during dinner.
Instead, I'm thinking about water running over her skin.
Hot water sluicing down the curve of her spine, over the swell of her hips, between her thighs. Her hair wet and dark, plastered to her neck and shoulders. Steam fogging up the mirrors, making everything soft and hazy.
I'm thinking about soap suds sliding down her breasts, catching on her nipples before trailing lower. About the way she'd look with her head tilted back under the spray, water running down her throat, over her collarbones, gathering in the hollow between her breasts.
Christ.
I adjust myself in my slacks, trying to will away the semi-erection that's been plaguing me since she walked onto the plane this morning looking sleep-rumpled and beautiful.
And it’s still not right, still not appropriate in so many ways. She's my employee. This arrangement has parameters, boundaries we agreed to.
