Page 89 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“No, but they felt safe. That’s what matters,” I tell him.

Then he looks up at me, and his eyes grow warmer.

“What?” I ask.

“Other people are posting pics and videos from last night too,” he says.

“Oh? Let me guess. Trying to make us look bad?” I ask.

But he just shakes his head. “I don’t know, I think you look pretty good.”

“Me?” I ask, hopping up from a lounging position to sit facing him. Our knees are touching as I grab the phone and look at the photos we were tagged in. Or me, I should say. It’s me with the family from last night. The one with the two baby girls. Bring them food. Talking to the mom, holding and feeding the infant. In another one of the photos, I am smiling down at her as she suckles the bottle. Her eyes are on me and she is touching my face with her tiny hand.

“Hmm,” I say, because I don’t know how else to react. The image fills my heart with something warm and lovely.

“It’s a great picture,” he says.

“They needed help,” I say. “And I wanted to do whatever I could.”

“Let’s go down by the pool,” Morgan suggests, standing up and holding his hand out to me.

“For more photos?” I ask. “Post storm?”

“No,” he says. “In fact, I forbid you to take a single photo while we are there.”

I narrow my eyes at him curiously. “I’m sorry, you forbid me?” I ask.

“Yes. As your boss. I forbid you to work at all today. Because you are taking a day off.”

“I’m taking a day off,” I echo, wondering if I even heard that right. Despite what HR might say (if they were even involved with this wild job), I didn’t think days off were part of this job. For one, the job itself kind of feels like a vacation, freak storm and Conrad’s shenanigans aside.

“Yes. You are taking the day off from photos and articles and ratings, and reviews. If you want to take a selfie, that’s fine. But only for your own camera roll. That’s it,” he says, and I can’t help but laugh.

“You’re crazy,” I tell him.

“Why is that crazy?” he asks. The man is still standing in front of me, still holding out his hand like Aladdin asking if Jasmine trusts him. And it’s not that I don’t. If the man manifested a magic carpet out of the middle of nowhere right now, I’d probably hop on.

“You don’t strike me as a day off kind of guy,” I admit.

“You’re right,” he says flatly, and I laugh. “I’m not. But we need this, and more than that, I want this. I want to spend time with you, and that has nothing to do with anyone else. I want to enjoy one of my resorts the way my parents would have. And considering everything we just went through, I think now is the perfect time for that.”

I nod and bite my bottom lip. Because honestly, it sounds amazing. And I am so on board.

Morgan and I slip into our bathing suits, and I load up a bag with sunscreen, oil, sunglasses, towels, a floppy hat, and even a book. At the recommendation of a friend of mine I met in Guatemala, I’ve been reading Christina Lauren’s The Unhoneymooners, and it’s been a fun ride. Is it realistic? No, but people don’t read romance for the realism. They read it as an escape. And a cute and spicy escape it has been.

We find loungers by the main pool, near the bar, half in the shade and half out. Morgan orders both of us some fruity mocktails that are light, refreshing, and hydrating, which is perfect because the humidity here, especially after the storm, is starting to dehydrate me. And I have to be honest. It feels a little weird just laying here, enjoying the sun and the music and the drinks and the weather. No photos, no posts, no monitoring the haters. No working.

Just…being.

And more than that. Being with him. Which feels oddly natural.

And I’m pretty sure Morgan feels it too. Because at one point, when I put my book down to apply more sunscreen to my legs, I glance over at Morgan and find him sleeping. I doubt he’s done that in a while, taken at afternoon nap. And when I say a while, I mean many, many years.

After a few more hours, which I spend perusing the villa, refreshing my drink, grabbing a pastry from the coffee shop, and moving the umbrella so Morgan doesn’t get sunburned, he wakes up with a groan and a deep stretch.

“How long have I been out?” he asks.

“Long enough for me to get to chapter eleven,” I tell him, putting the bookmark in my book and setting it aside. “And long enough that I am starved. We should get dinner.”