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I barely get my sentence out when she rushes over to me and throws her arms around my neck. The blunt force of her hug throws me off balance slightly. A warm feeling spreads across my chest as the sweet scent of her shampoo fills the air.
Eliana takes a step back and clears her throat. “Sorry.” Her face flushes an adorable shade of crimson. “I don’t know where that came from.” She rolls her eyes. “Probably because you’re Phoebe’s brother and you automatically feel a little like family.”
I can’t hide the grimace on my face. Family was the last thing I was thinking as the sweet, sexy woman pressed her soft curves against me. It’s amazing how fast my brain registered how much I’d like to throw her up against the wall and ravage that full mouth of hers.
“Right.” I finally say. “I’ll have housekeeping open a few rooms for you. You can take your pick.”
“It’s a plan!” Eliana shoots me an energetic thumbs up. “I’ll get my bags.”
“Just…” I throw my palms out in her direction. “Wait in the lobby and I’ll have the bellman get them for you.”
“I can do that.” She says, and turns to leave my office, but stops in the door frame and turns back to me. “Thank you, Salem.” She shoots me a shy smile and my entire body ignites with desire. All I can do is nod, and just like that the little spitfire designer whose taste rivals mine is out of sight.
3
Eliana
Every timeI find myself somewhat entranced in the task at hand, Phoebe texts me a series of excited emojis. It reminds me that my bestie is only a few miles away and I wish I could be with her, catching up, hanging out, getting more pertinent background information on her drop dead gorgeous older brother.
You don’t mean that last part. Yes, you do.
With a long sigh, I lay backward on the bed and stare at the popcorn textured ceiling. I cannot believe this man wants to keep this place like it is. That seems so counterproductive if you’re in the business to make money. My teeth gnash into my bottom lip. Maybe Salem isn’t in this for the money. But then, why would he be?
A long groan escapes my mouth. I make myself get off this bed and over to the oversized, heavy oak desk. Looking through my portfolio and the few usable fabric samples I have, I’m tempted to trash every minor detail I’ve managed to come up with. Salem seems headstrong, and though it seems he wants to compromise, something tells me he’s the kind of man who’s used to always getting what he wants.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, hair piled on top of my head in my favorite, cozy—read: worn—sweats. My stomach grumbles. The time on my phone reads nine o’clock, still plenty time before delivery closes.
Panic floods my guts as I open the delivery app on my phone. Please, please, please, let something be open. Pizza, Indian, Thai, fried freaking chicken. The endless scroll turns out to be as bad as I thought. Not one place in Burly Creek is open for delivery.
“No,” I whine and stomp my slipper clad foot against the carpet. I need to think. There’s no way I’m going to come up with anything worthwhile on an empty stomach. They say that’s where your second brain lives and I have to agree. Without food, I’m a shell of a hangry woman.
I twist my chin to the side and crack my neck. I didn’t put myself through four years of college in the city, on my own dollar, without learning to be resourceful. I pace the room, knowing what I have to do. With a curt nod, I slip into my sneakers, grab my room key—yes, this place has actual metal keys, how retro!—and peek both ways before locking the door behind me.
No one seems to be out. The chandeliers buzz overhead. If memory serves me correctly, the kitchen is this way. I round the corner, move swiftly past the front desk where a young woman is so involved in her book she doesn’t even see me, dodge through the restaurant and twist the doorknob to the kitchen.
To my surprise, it’s open. “Oh yes, there is a God.” I whisper. Hopefully they don’t keep a lock on the big fridge at night like they did in my sorority house due to one too many drunken late night raids. A smile crosses my lips thinking about it. Phoebe was always the worst culprit, and wouldn’t you know she always dragged my ass down with her.
I close the door behind me and weave my way past the front. In the back, the lights are already on. I freeze for a moment, then decide to proceed with caution. I can always fib a bit and say I got lost.
In the kitchen? Oh man, that should go over well.
My stomach growls again and I decide that it’s worth the risk. I tiptoe into the back room. My mind is a rolodex of excuses, but when I turn the corner and see Salem sitting under an overhead lamp with a plate of cookies in front of him, every thought in my head dries up. Quickly, I duck behind the wall then peer back in his direction.
Salem’s head is down, dark hair falling over one eye as he works through some sort of ledger. His tight white t-shirt shows off his sinewy torso, and for the first time I notice a sleeve of colorful tattoos dancing up and down his right arm. My center clenches on the spot, imagining what it would feel like to run my fingers up and down his muscular frame. From the size of the man, I can only imagine what he’s packing below the belt. My panties drench at the thought.
“I can hear you breathing.” He says without looking up. His booming voice bounces around the empty kitchen.
“Shit,” I whisper, adjust my face into a casual smile and step out like I wasn’t just creeping on him like Peeping Tom. “Hey.” I do not sound as casual as I hoped. Dammit.
“Hey yourself.” He sits up straight, stretching out his back. His rock hard muscles pop and flex through his t-shirt. “Care to join me?”
“Oh, no.” I say, nearly stumbling over my own feet as I try and back out but am stopped by an industrial freezer that I swear wasn’t there a minute ago. “I just—just—”
“Eliana.” The way he says my name takes my breath away. He points to the stool across from him. “I can’t eat all of these cookies by myself. Well,” he tilts his head to the side, showing off his strong profile. “I can, but I really shouldn’t.” He pats his perfectly firm stomach that I’m certain has zero percent body fat on it.
Here I am, in the kitchen with my best friend’s brother-slash-potential boss, and all I can think about is what it would feel like to rip that t-shirt off of his body with my bare hands and devour his mouth before he has a chance to resist me. “If you insist.”
“I see you traded your heels for sneakers.” He pushes the plate of cookies in my direction. “Good choice.”
