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The covers rustle as I sit up, rubbing at my neck. The skin feels extra sensitive, rubbed raw by my boss’s beard last night. He kissed me there so hungrily, like what hereallywanted was to swallow me whole. Like he’s been craving me as badly as I’ve wanted him.
And… he’s here. Sleeping like the dead, crashed face-down on the pillows, one arm slung out like he’s reaching for me. Dark hair rumpled, his body tanned and brawny.
Did he hurt his leg last night? I hope not. Everything that happened… it was such a dream.
Although I can’t believe he fell asleep right after we had sex for the first time. You can bet your ass I’ll tease him for that, just as soon as we’re both awake.
The bed frame creaks as I swing my legs off the mattress. The air is cold, and I swipe one of Rufus’s faded plaid shirts from a nearby chair. Buttoning it slowly, I wander to the window sill.
Holy crap.
The wreckage outside is insane. Last night’s storm has left huge pools of dark, mirrored water, and broken tree limbs lie strewn across the landscape though there are no trees nearby. A strange white tablecloth lies in the hotel driveway, muddied and twisted. Guess it was snatched from one of the town’s washing lines.
Not far away, where the rocky slope rises above the hotel, a huge scorch mark blackens the earth. A lightning strike? Must have been.
The storm came so freakingclose. Could it have hit the hotel?
Turning away from the window, I shiver.
Coffee. That’s what I need. Coffee and a shower and some fresh clothes, so that when I face my boss-turned-lover, I can be cool about this. Don’t want to put him off already by being a giant weirdo about it.
So we had sex. Uh-huh. So everything’s changed.Whatever, man.
I’m cool; not bursting with happiness at all. I’msocool, and I can handle dating a godly painter with a grumpy demeanor. No problem.
My footsteps are light as I slip out of the bedroom. I leave my boss behind, snoring into his pillows.
* * *
“Morning.”
I perk up when Rufus limps into the kitchen, two coffees already steaming in front of me on the counter. My hair’s damp from the shower, coiled in a messy bun on top of my head, and I’m dressed in a cream shirt dress. It’s lame, I know, but I took extra care making myself look pretty this morning.
And I spin around, grinning… but my boss won’t look my way. He bangs and rifles through the cupboards, back stubbornly turned, and the longer he won’t look at me, the more my stomach sinks.
Huh.
“Did you see the storm damage?” My voice is hoarse, strained with false cheer. “It looks like a war zone outside.”
Mr Grangemoor grunts. He swipes a mug from the cupboard, then sets about making a fresh coffee.
My chest hurts. “I already made you one,” I say, and finally,finally,he glances over his shoulder. His gaze lands on the kitchen tiles by my feet.
Another grunt. “Thanks.”
…Oh god.
He regrets it. He regrets what we did.
The realization tastes sour in my mouth, and I swallow hard, gripping the counter where I’m suddenly dizzy. Last night was a one time thing, clearly, and he doesn’t want to discuss it. No, scratch that: he doesn’t even want tolookat me.
Ow. Ow, ow, ow.
I squeeze the counter edge tighter, forcing myself to take long, slow breaths. The hurt presses on me like a heavy weight, squeezing the air from my chest.
Does Mr Grangemoor realize that last night was my first time doing—doingthat? That I gave him everything? Does he even care?
God, do I mean anything to this man; anything at all?
