Page 63 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“Please,” Rafael motions to us while two of the cooks pull up a couple of crates for us to sit on. We take a seat, and Morgan hands me my plate; I chuckle.

“Sorry, Miss,” Rafael smiles at me. “Our dinner table isn’t the fanciest, but we like to think we are the best company.”

“I think it’s perfect,” I tell him, scooping up some shrimp ceviche and savoring it. “A private dining experience.”

The rest of the staff smiles and continues to eat, not bothered at all that their Ralph Lauren sporting boss is eating with them.

“I’ve seen you on Instagram,” another man with tattooed arms and an earring says. His voice is down to earth and kind. “You’ve eaten cuisine from all around the world.”

“I have.” I smile, taking another bite.

“And how do we stack up?” Rafael asks.

“Top notch,” I say, and they all grin, some of them even blushing a little.

“Even if the chairs leave something to be desired?” a girl asks while knocking on the crate she’s sitting on.

“Listen, it’s not the first time I’ve eaten an extraordinary meal prepared by locals while sitting on a box of exotic fruit,” I say, taking another bite.

“That is…wildly specific.” Morgan nods, making everyone laugh.

“And yet completely true,” I tell him, and this time, I am the one winking.

After we’ve finished eating, the staff has to get to work cleaning things up. I make a point of taking a photo with them. I low-key took a couple while we were eating, laughing, and talking to Morgan. I thank them all for what will most likely hold first place for the best dinner of the trip, no matter how many more dinners we have in our travels.

“That was fun,” I tell Morgan as he uses his free hand to unlock the door of our suite.

“Which part?” he asks as we walk inside, still holding hands.

“All of it,” I tell him. “The music. The sunset, the lights, and the food. Definitely the food. I didn’t know you hung out with your staff.”

“I don’t usually,” he says, tossing his things on the counter and slipping out of his shoes. I have to force myself not to stare as he untucks and unbuttons his shirt, letting it hang open. His hard, carved abdomen on display. “But I think that’s part of the problem. I never go to the resorts. Not like they did. And I doubt when Conrad goes he gives two shits about the kitchen staff. Which is a failure in my opinion.”

I can’t help but focus on one particular part of that sentence.

Not like they did.

I know enough to know he is talking about his parents. But I’ve also learned that Jeff and Tamara Bale are a touchy subject. Whatever happened all those years ago is something Morgan keeps locked away. And right now is not the time to go deep-diving into difficult subjects.

Right now I am happy, buzzing from the events of the evening. Right now, the room feels small with him standing in it. He smells like musk and pine and something sweet, and I can’t stop staring at his body behind the open shirt.

“Well, you aren’t failing, that’s for sure,” I tell him, and Morgan’s eyes meet mine. Then, as he watches me flop onto the bed on my stomach, his brow furrows. “Please tell me you’re not working,” he says. “I give you permission to be off the clock.”

“Just one post,” I say as I make a compilation of photos from the night, including the ones of him with the kitchen staff. I want to make a regular post of the events of the evening, minus the proposal first. Because even though that announcement is going to break the internet, I don’t want it to outshine everything else. The real events happening. The real Morgan. Unfiltered, unfaked, uncontracted.

“There,” I say, tossing my phone aside and resting my head with a sigh. “I think I’ve earned a spa day,” I murmur.

“Oh?” Morgan asks, and I can feel him climbing onto the bed. My heart dancing inside my chest.

“Yes,” I answer, attempting to play it cool. Like I’m not affected by him sitting next to me on the king-sized bed.

“Well, I’ll make sure to book a spa day for you at the next resort. But for now…” Morgan’s words taper off, and his hands find me.

At first, it’s only his fingertips, gently sweeping my hair from my back to reveal my shoulders. The whisper of touch is enough to send a prickle of a shiver down my body. Then his hands clasp warmly over my shoulders, and he begins to massage.

“Oh…” I let out, unable to stifle the moan. But God does that feel good. Good enough to make me cry. I just close my eyes and melt into his kneading as Morgan massages every tense muscle in my shoulders and upper back.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, his voice gravelly and low, like the bottom register of a guitar, strumming over my nerves with every word.