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He coughs softly like he’s dislodging food from his throat. “That is a pity.”
I need this meal to be over. I need this day to be over. I should have gone home when I had the chance. The fact is, the more time I spend with him, the more dangerous this whole situation becomes. But I can't pretend he's not charming, and that it isn't easy to forget why I wanted to turn him down in the first place. What is it about him that makes me so eager to forget all the hurt he caused me?
By the time we finish eating, it's past ten o'clock. Not exactly shockingly late, but late enough after a long day of work that my eyes are burning from the exertion of staring at my screen all day. My body's in knots, too. My muscles are stiff. “Remind me to invoice you for the massage I'll need after all this sitting around in one place.”
I almost swallow my tongue when I realize what I just said, but he takes the high road instead of offering me a complimentary rubdown. “By all means. Feel free.”
He then checks his watch, frowning. “I kept you here way too late. Honestly, I apologize.”
“No need.” I start gathering my things, placing them in my bag.
“There's a problem, though. I'm not sure I can request the helicopter this late. I mean, I can, but it's sort of a dick move at this time of night.”
“If I didn't know better, I'd think you kept me here this late on purpose.”
“I didn't, I swear.” He holds up a hand, then makes a cross over his chest with his forefinger.
“It's alright. I can afford a cab back to town.”
“You could also stay here.”
“Here?” I look around, snickering. “I mean, do you really want me sleeping on your leather couch?”
“I meant you could take a room at our hotel. It’s not a busy night at the club, there should be at least one room available.”
I should probably turn him down, but I'm too tired to do anything but agree. All I want is to close my eyes in a comfortable bed. “Sure. Thanks. I can always go back tomorrow.”
“Excellent. Come on. I'll walk you down. You need a special key to access those floors.”
On the way down, goosebumps pebble my skin when it occurs to me that Sawyer Cargill is walking me to my hotel room. Where there will obviously be a bed. Was this all part of his master plan? Maybe I need to stop being so suspicious, but then there's a good reason for it. I can't trust him.
You can't trust the little boy he used to be. He's not that boy anymore, just like you are not that girl.
I can't believe how much I want that to be true as we step off the elevator and emerge in a tasteful, softly lit hallway. Unlike the strong, masculine feel of the executive floor, this is much calmer. Inviting. I could easily be in the hallway of someone's home. Someone's extremely expensive home.
“Here we go. Our best room, complete with a stunning view.” He opens the door for me, then sweeps an arm to usher me inside. Immediately, my attention is drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows which do indeed allow for a breathtaking view of the harbor. There are boats out there, even at this time of night, some of them strung with white twinkle lights that reflect off the water and create a dreamy look. The slightly waning moon casts silvery light caught by countless tiny ripples.
“It's really beautiful,” I murmur, my breath catching as I drink in the scene.
He stands behind me, alarmingly close. The scent of his cologne threatens to undo the last of my weakening resolve. “Yes. It is.”
This is becoming an entirely too intimate moment. I leave my bag on the coffee table and sink onto a white linen sofa. “I should have the press release finished by the end of the day tomorrow. I'll send it over to you for final approval once I'm satisfied with it.”
“Do you ever think of anything but your work?”
“I would think you'd be grateful for that. Remember, this is all for you.”
“It just strikes me as sort of sad that you would step into a room like this and immediately turn to work.”
I'm doing it because it's safer than getting personal. “Just a habit, I guess. But I've been thinking seriously about one of the ideas we discussed to earn the trust and respect of your neighbors; a nonprofit run by the Somerset Yacht Club.”
His mouth twists in a smirk that does not bode well. “The sailing school idea?”
“Sure. A chance for underprivileged kids to learn to sail, to spend time out on the water during the summer. These kids would never get that opportunity otherwise. It would be a really great gesture, especially if you opened it here, on the grounds of the club.”
“It would take a lot of work.”
“Most things do,” I remind him, kicking off my flats. “But it would earn you a ton of good will.”
