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“That has nothing to do with us.”
He jerks on the zipper. “You said people don’t marry someone they’ve only met once. I’m telling you they did.”
“You always have to be right, don’t you?”
“Most of the time, but I’m aware of how detrimental that is to a happy marriage.” He pauses. Meets my eyes. “So I’ll concede the point. You’re right. Even if you’re wrong.”
“Do you practice that? Being so condescending it makes me want to smack you?”
He laughs. “It’s a gift.”
I scoff. “Can you hurry up?”
“It’s stubborn.”
While he fights with the zipper, I ask, “And what did you mean earlier? You said you came here to scold me.”
His head pops up and he narrows his eyes at the mirror. “I heard you were worrying about how much everything will cost.”
“Well, excuse me for being,” I wince as he pushes his knuckles into the small of my back, “worried about your bottom line.”
“That’s bull. You were planning on paying me back.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I sent the girl back to choose something in your style that you’ll like. If you do, we get it. That’s it. You shouldn’t worry about anything else.”
I hear the blessed sound of the zipper moving freely and whip around to face him. “What is your problem?”
“Stubborn women who fight me on everything.”
I lift my chin. “I can afford to pay for myself.”
“Exactly.” His fingers graze my cheek. “But I’m here so you don’t have to.”
“How long will you be here?” I whisper. “For today? And then what?”
"And then we figure it out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out. We both know you don’t do relationships and I don’t do this.” I rock my fingers between us.
He steps closer to me, his eyes darkening. “This?”
“One-night stands and bad decisions and…” Shoot. I can’t breathe. He’s moving closer to me and I can’t—“I need more than a hook-up in Vegas.” My voice is whisper-soft as I dig my fingers into his shirt. As I feel my body rising to meet his.
I can’t stop myself. It’s like I’m being lifted up by his gaze. By the rapid thunder of my heart. By the heat snapping like wires stretched to their limit.
My voice drifts. “I need…”
I’m not sure who moves in first.
Could be me.
Could be Hansley.
But the moment our lips touch, I know I’m screwed.
Because Hansley doesn’t punish me.
