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“That sounds nice. Plus, if we stick together, there’s no chance that I’ll spill anything to my brothers.”
“Was that a jab at me talking with Jessica?”
“Maybe. But that’s the only one I’m making. Plus, if we don’t hang around the hotel lobby, no one else can call you my wife.”
“Or call you my husband.”
> I felt a burn deep within my gut as that phrase tumbled from her lips. The elevator doors opened and Andrea looked up at the level before she scooted past me. I followed quickly on her heels. If the invitation to spend time with her was an open one, then I sure as hell was taking it. I enjoyed learning more about her. I enjoyed being in her presence. I enjoyed talking with her.
And if she was giving me the opportunity to experience more, then I wasn’t turning that shit down.
She drew out her room key from her pocket and placed it into her door. She opened it up for the both of us and we slipped on in. I closed the door behind me as she tossed the key onto a throw-away table, then she kicked off her flip flops and fell into bed.
And every part of my body wanted to fall in with her.
“I don’t know about you, but that breakfast did not do it for me,” she said.
Then, right on cue, my stomach let out the loudest growl I’d ever heard from it in my life.
Andrea fell apart in laughter on the bed, clutching her stomach and drawing her knees up to her chest. Her toes curled and her back arched and I caught a luscious glimpse of the backs of her thighs. Fucking hell, the woman was phenomenally beautiful. And her panties were calling to my hands just so they could be ripped off. I bit down onto the inside of my cheek to keep my cool as she fell over onto her side, laughing so hard that she couldn’t catch her breath.
“You good?” I asked.
“Your body couldn't have had more perfect timing,” she said breathlessly.
“Is there anything specific you’d like to order for lunch?”
“I don’t know. What do they have? Is there a menu?”
“There isn’t. But the private chef we have on standby for our trip can make anything and everything you ask of him.”
“So, you mean to tell me that there’s some guy in a chef’s hat just chilling in a corner in the kitchen downstairs waiting for one of our rooms to call?”
“I’m sure he’s probably helping the kitchen staff as well, but yes. Essentially.”
“You guys have too much money,” she said.
“All the more to spoil you with, wife.”
I watched her face drop and her expression changed on a dime. But, she didn’t get upset with me like I thought she would. It almost seemed as if she was reflective. Like she was pulled into a well of memories that were clawing at her mind. I picked up the phone from the receiver as her eyes drifted off, and part of me regretted making the comment in the first place.
I dialed the number for the kitchen before I cleared my throat.
“Andrea? You okay?” I asked.
“Huh? Yeah? Oh, yes. Sorry. Just thinking about something.”
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfort—yes. Andrea Faith’s room. Mhm. Top floor. Can you give me a second?” I asked.
She cocked her head at me as I pressed the phone receiver to my shoulder.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with my comment,” I said.
“You didn’t.”
I could tell by the look in her eye that she was telling the truth, but then it raised another question. How did that comment make her feel?
“Salmon and a shrimp cocktail with grilled vegetables,” she said.
