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Kyle let out a low whistle as we entered the room. It wasn't just the penthouse suite—it was clearly the honeymoon suite, built for romantic and most likely naked behavior. Unlike the minimalist space in the lobby, our suite had plenty of romantic flourishes: roses in crystal vases, champagne in a bucket, a view of the Commons, intimate seating throughout the room and a fire roaring in the fireplace.
It was August. Who the hell needs a fire in August?
Lusty, love-struck couples on a sexy vacation. That's who.
I stared around, taking everything in. "Maybe I am mad at Tori."
"Don't be." He pulled me against him and looked at me hungrily. "She did a good job—and I'm pretty sure I won't have to call Britta—because I have every single thing that I need."
"Kyle!" I said in protest, extricating myself before I accidentally-on-purpose jumped him. I was happy he'd briefly escaped the dark cloud again, but that didn't mean I could throw myself at him.
I, for one, didn't need the roaring fire. I already had a very inconvenient one between my legs at the thought of being trapped here with Kyle for a whole weekend. We could skip talking about Pierce and his offer. I could turn off my phone and pretend Lucas and his list of athletic and calorie-restrictive demands were figments of my imagination. We could order room service and defile every available surface of this suite with our sweating, naked bodies. We could…
Mental slap. Mental-fucking-slap, Lo. You have to break up with him—fire him, I mean. So that he can have a normal life again.
Furious for more reasons than I cared to entertain, I stomped into the bedroom. It was luxurious and decadent, with a crystal chandelier hanging over an enormous four-poster bed. Red draperies hung on the wall; I felt as if I were in an ultra-expensive brothel. I peered into the bathroom, and it was exactly as I'd feared: clear glass shower, enormous tub built for sharing, bubble bath, everything that a couple having a sexy weekend would want. I tore through the rest of the suite—but that only confirmed my worst fears. There was only one bedroom and only one bed.
I stood next to the floor-to-ceiling windows, my fists clenched, my breathing rapid.
"What's the matter, Lo?" Kyle asked, and I heard that shit-eating grin in his voice again. At least he was in a better mood.
My mood, however, had taken a turn for the worst. "There's only one bed."
He was stretched out on the couch, and he put his enormous arms behind his head. I tried in vain to look away from those bulging biceps.
"I can sleep on the couch," he said, grinning. "If that's what you want."
I gritted my teeth, stalked over to the champagne, and opened it. Anything to avoid staring at his biceps. When in Rome, the least you could do was drink the available alcohol.
"Okay. Sleep on the couch." Two could play this game. "If that's what you want."
He sat up a little and watched me. "It's not what I want."
Oh, holy hell. Now he was being completely direct.
I rolled my eyes as if he were being ridiculous. "Stop. You just met with your father. We have enough problems right now." I swigged some champagne.
His eyes didn't leave my face as he shrugged. "Okay, boss."
"Don't call me boss."
"Okay, princess."
"Stop. It." I sighed. "At least you're in a better mood. I do hate it when you call me names, though."
"Does it remind you of the good old days when I called you bookworm? Or pencil-neck?" Kyle grinned at me.
I grunted. "It's not like I still call you scrotumhead."
Kyle raised eyebrows. "You called me scrotumhead?"
I shrugged, feeling my face reddening. "I only called you that… in my head… when we were growing up and you were being mean to me. Which was pretty much all the time."
Kyle nodded thoughtfully, as if considering his nickname. "Scrotumhead had a certain something to it, I guess. At least you were thinking about my scrotum." He continued to grin at me, and I felt my face go from pink to crimson.
I stalked around the room, clutching my champagne and no longer wanting to discuss scrotums. I had enough to worry about: my upcoming premiere, the fact that Kyle might very well quit this weekend, and that I hadn't lost a pound. Not one.
"You can come sit next to me, you know. It's not like I'm gonna bite. Although a bite from a scrotumhead might be… interesting." Kyle laughed, and it was great to hear. I'd hated it when he came out of his father's office, pale and fuming.
