Page 12 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

For the first time since he turned around, the amusement leaves his face. His eyes stay on mine for a long second before he says, “I probably should.”

“Yes. You should.”

“But I’m not going to lie to you and say I’m sorry I looked.”

My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He takes a step toward me. Not enough to crowd me, just enough that I become very aware that he is still shirtless and I am still naked beneath a robe that suddenly feels much thinner than it did thirty seconds ago.

“You surprised me,” he says. “I walked in here expecting an empty room and found you.”

“Dancing naked.”

That almost-smile returns. “I was trying not to mention the dancing.”

I close my eyes. “Oh my God.”

“For what it’s worth, you should do it more often.”

My eyes snap open. “Dance naked in hotel bathrooms?”

“No.” His eyes hold mine. “Stop looking at yourself like there’s something wrong with what you see.”

That shuts me up.

He saw that too.

“You have no idea what your curves were doing to my pants,” he adds, raising an eyebrow.

For a moment neither of us says anything. The shower is still running behind me, water hitting marble in a steady rush while I stand there wondering how a conversation with a strange half-naked man has somehow become the most exposed I’ve felt all day.

“You don’t even know me,” I finally say.

“I don’t need to know you to know what I saw.”

His gaze drops over me again, slower this time, and there is absolutely nothing polite about it.

“And whatever you thought was wrong with what you saw in that mirror,” he says, meeting my eyes again, “I can promise you, I didn’t see it.”

My heart gives one hard, stupid thump.

Because no man has ever said anything like that to me before. More importantly, no man has ever looked at me while saying it like he wants to prove it.

The sensible thing would be to end this conversation before it gets any stranger.

I should tell him to leave.

I should march downstairs in this robe, demand a manager and write approximately six pages about the resort that handed a shirtless stranger access to my room.

Instead, I look at his chest again.

Then at the shower.

Then back at him.

This is a terrible idea.

Which, historically speaking, has never stopped me from having one.