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Rob pulls me into his embrace, putting an end to my ambivalence. I never thought cuddling a guy in his business suit would feel so casual.
“Ambear?”
So he’d heard. “That’s reserved for kids.”
“Alright, I’ll stick with Amber-Rose, then.”
I tilt my head. Up close, I admire his face as if we’d just met. In contrast to his powerful frame, he has baby skin that’s almost smoother than my complexion. Even his brows and facial hair are soft, and his lips, too. He has a rather wide cupid’s bow. It’s both cute and functional. I swear it was poking into my upper lip last night when we kissed, publicly jogging my arousal to an inappropriate level.
His fingers fan behind my back, and without resistance I accept his gift—a Hartley kiss, the sequel.
Move that cupid’s bow… that’s it… God, Rob!
“If you do this every day, I’ll go out of business in no time,” I say.
“I’d sympathize with your customers, then.” He loosens his embrace.
“How was the dinner?” I ask, still feeling slightly embarrassed at leaving him high and dry.
“Fine,” he responds with a quick shrug. “Now I know why the Island of Dolls is the last place on earth you’d want to be.”
“Why?”
“Because you’d have to take a boat to get there.”
Being a smartass, are we?
“I’m sorry about last night,” I say. “I’m just scared of boats.” My heart flutters behind my ribcage, urging me to confess the real reason. But courage escapes me. Recounting that night at Lake Geneva isn’t just going to be a confession. It will shatter my existence to tell someone about it. I trust Rob, with all my heart. It’s me—I haven’t prepared myself for it. “I had a terrible accident on one. Since then, I’m just scared to sail.”
“It’s fine,” Rob says, fiddling with his phone. Then he shows me an article.
Two princes charming face off NBA-style aboard a 590-ft yacht.
It’s Clayton Hartley and, apparently, a royal from Greece, doing a one-on-one hoop-off in their tuxedos. Clayton won by one point.
“You had a friggin’ prince at the party, and you wore jeans? What were you thinking?”
“I was just thinking of you.” He gives me a grin, as if it was nothing. “Okay, so let me know what you think of this one.”
Hell! I read gossip every now and then, but seeing me in it changes everything. The new article Rob’s showing me says:Bachelor no more?
I drive my face closer to the screen. Did he really kiss me like that?
“Have I ruined your reputation?” I give him a sorry-not-sorry look.
“Well, I could’ve put my hand higher on the back of your neck, and I could’ve spread my fingers wider. But I didn’t want to ruin your hair. Apart from that, I think my reputation as a great kisser is still intact.”
He’s not wrong to claim that he’s a great kisser, but the way he described what could’ve been makes me hot.
“Did you realize where your hands were?” Rob says, his tone forewarning me.
My left hand is clutching at his man breast, and my other hand—holy Mother Teresa—is scooping his rather rounded crotch, the bulge his designer jeans couldn’t conceal. The scene is totally inappropriate for party consumption.
Rob laughs at my expression.
“I wonder how many hearts you’ve broken this morning?” I ask him with another sorry-not-sorry look.
He shakes his head. “Clay will thank me for boosting his desirability ranking. Me, I don’t care what people think. I’m happy that I have you.”
