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“I counted,” he reiterates tiredly while my brain struggles to overpower the hormones that demand I rake my fingers through his hair.
“You… you mean you hallucinated four times,” I stammer once his accusation actually sinks in. There is no way in hell I’d so much as stray past the bed’s midline during the night. Had I?
“Eleven-forty-five p.m.,” he recites, indicating toward his foot with a wave of his hand. “Your ankle brushed mine.”
I follow his gaze to find that he slept in his slacks and socks. I’m not sure if he spent the night without blankets either or had just recently kicked them off.
“I didn’t,” I snap, but I tug my feet beneath me, resting my body on my knees.
“One-twenty-three a.m.,” he continues, lifting his left shoulder from the mattress. “The tip of your left forefinger brushed my arm.”
“Did not,” I counter, but the denial falls flat. God, he slept without his shirt. Rippling muscle—I’d forgotten the bastard spent nearly every other night in the gym. A master craftsman couldn’t have chiseled a more perfect specimen from stone. My eyes trace him greedily, drifting all the way down to the trail of dark hair leading beneath the waistband of his pants.
“Four and five a.m., respectively,” he says, reaching up to drag his hand through his hair, swiping a wayward fringe out of his eyes. “Your hip brushed mine. However, I won’t bother with ringing security. This time.”
“Well, how benevolent of you.” I shove the thicker duvet aside and wrap the top sheet around me before dismounting the mattress. My bare feet hit the floor, curling within the plush carpet, and I know without having to look that he followed suit.
“Don’t let me chase you from bed, Evelyn,” he says. “Enjoy the time to yourself.”
I don’t know if he intends the double meaning or if his implied innuendo is an accident this time. My cheeks catch fire, regardless. “Maybe I will.”
I sit back on the mattress, glancing at him over my shoulder. I deliberately shift until I’m in the center of the bed and spread my legs out, claiming part of the space where he’d slept during the night.
“Hmph.” He turns his back on me and heads for his closet. “Takeallthe time you need,” he says, though once again, I can’t help feeling like there’s a double meaning tucked within the words. “Frankly, I’m just surprised you aren’t nagging me about breakfast.”
Bastard. “I’ve been fired, remember,” I retort, though I can’t see his face as he enters his walk-in closet. I hear him rummaging through the drawers, and I can’t help but wonder which outfit he’ll pick. The blue? The black? The gray? Not that I give a damn either way. “You can make your own damn breakfast.”
He says nothing, and a moment later, he exits the closet wearing a steel-colored suit with a gray undershirt and matching tie. I would have suggested a blue one, but the bastard still looks impeccable, regardless. Without a word to me, he crosses the room and enters the bathroom. I hear the water running, followed by the scrub of a toothbrush against his teeth. He renters the bedroom a few minutes later while dragging a comb through his hair, slicking back every dark strand into his signature coif. I don’t mean to stare, but I can’t tear my eyes away until he sets the comb on a nearby dresser and enters the hallway, as casually as if I’m not lying naked on his bed.
I wait ten minutes before crawling off the mattress and creeping into the guest bedroom for my clothes. I get dressed in a simple blue sundress that doesn’t require ironing, and I wet my hair in the guest bathroom, leaving it to dry naturally rather than attempt to detangle the mess with my fingers.
I take my time to re-organize my suitcase while picturing Bellamy sprawled in the back seat of the Mercedes, on his way to the office. He’ll arrive an hour early, like always, and set to work scouring through his email. Typically, I would review his itinerary before force-feeding him at least a banana before his first meeting. Today, for all I care, he could go into a hypoglycemic coma before lunchtime.
When I finally gather my belongings and make my way downstairs, I fully expect to embark on the walk of shame down to the lobby without an audience. I’ll write the bastard a check before I leave, of course, and maybe tape it to his door. The thought doesn’t even finish forming in my mind before I lock eyes with the figure standing at the foot of the staircase, a frying pan in hand.
“Taste this,” he demands, offering a bit of what appears to be eggs on a fork while I promptly trip down the next step and lose my grip on my suitcase. It clatters to the bottom, not that Graeme Bellamy spares it a passing glance. His eyes hold a challenge, and his hand never lowers the pan or the fork.
I must be hallucinating. For one, I didn’t know that Graeme Bellamy was capable of finding his way into a kitchen, let alone operating the appliances. I sniff and only inhale the spicy tang of garlic—not smoke. A glance at the doorway to the kitchen doesn’t reveal flames shooting from the stainless-steel stovetop, either.
“Any day, Ms. King…”
Drawn forward by curiosity, I’m already standing in front of him before I realize it, just one step above. He casually raises his fork, and my mouth opens against my better judgment. One small bite and my eyes widen. “You can cook,” I blurt out after swallowing.
“Yes…” Shooting me a puzzled look, he steps back, stirring the substance in his pan—scrambled eggs, I think. “I can. My own damn breakfast, to be exact.”
You’d think the bastard showed off his culinary skills every day. But the fact is that I tasted more than just the typical salt and pepper I was known to cook with—maybe olive oil if I wanted to get fancy. Clove. Garlic. Fresh rosemary.
Were those things even in his fridge?
“Leaving so soon?” Bellamy calls from the kitchen.
“Y-Yes.” I scramble down the final step and rush to pick up my suitcase from the floor.
“Oh. You’re welcome to stay until you find another hotel.” His tone is way too cold to seem genuine. Besides, like hell I would stay another night in the same mile radius as him.
“No, thank you.” I do my best to heft my bag higher on my shoulder before heading for the door. I get it open one-handed, balancing the handle of my suitcase against my hip.
“You’re not eating?” His voice reaches me before I step over the threshold. Surprise, surprise, it contains yet another dare. Another challenge that I should smartly refuse. “You should,” he adds. “After all, I wouldn’t want your blood sugar levels to drop.”
