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“Hmmm. If you say so.” Dean still sounds unconvinced.
Ever since Mom and Dad died, Dean’s watched over me. I’m grateful for everything he’s done, of course, but sometimes I get the impression he still thinks I’m a kid. It’s more than a little infuriating.
As much as I love my brother, I’m glad he moved away to Seattle for work.
“I do,” I say, “and you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
I can see the Ritz-Carlton now, gleaming in the early evening sky.
My stomach twists a little with anxiety. What has Brock got in store for me?
I briefly consider telling Dean about the whole situation but quickly decide against it. He’ll only worry, and he already thinks I’m incapable of taking care of myself.
“Listen, Dean, I’m right in the middle of something. I’ll call you back later in the week so we can have a real catch-up, okay?”
“All right, Nina. But you let me know if you get yourself into any trouble. Promise me.”
“I promise, Dean. Stop worrying. I’ll talk to you soon.”
I hang up the call just as I hop off the bus, take a deep breath, and head inside, wondering what I’m getting myself into.
I get the key from reception, take the elevator up, and enter a plush hotel room, my mouth agape.
Thick, soft carpeting. A separate seating area with its own TV. Another TV hanging on the wall across from the oversized bed. A massive bathtub with massage jets in the marble-floor bathroom.
This room probably costs like a week’s salary for me. For a little while, I sort of awkwardly hover around, not sure what to do.
I don’t know what to expect when Brock arrives. Is he going to try and jump me or something?
Still, now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem like the most unattractive idea to immerse myself in warm water and soap bubbles, sharing a bottle of champagne with Brock while drops of water roll down his golden skin, tracing the contours of his muscular . . .
Damn it, Nina. No. Bad. That would be bad.
I shake my head. As if that would help get rid of the sexy images that have already begun to form and multiply in my brain.
I’ve got to stay professional. I can’t ruin my career over some guy, even if that guy is Brock.
Was it a bad idea to come here?
As these thoughts crowd my mind, the door opens. My heart skips a beat at the soft click, and I step out of the bathroom.
It’s him. Brock. He’s dressed to the nines—tux, shiny shoes, the whole nine yards. Damn, he looks good.
“Hey, thanks for coming. I was worried you might not,” he says, handing over a big, fancy-looking shopping bag to me. “Just put those on, and we can get started.”
My mind goes wild with possibilities as I robotically take the bag by the handles, my hand grazing over Brock’s for a heart-stopping moment.
What’s inside? A sexy nurse costume? A sexy cat woman costume made of latex? A sexy . . .
Stop it. Stop thinking dirty thoughts. It’s probably not a sexy anything. It’s most likely some promotional material—brochures, flyers, whatever.
Glancing at Dean’s mysterious smile, I peek inside the bag . . .
A dress, it looks like, along with some shoes. The tags are still on . . . and the prices, my God. My eyes water at the sight.
What the hell is going on?
If he thinks that just because he gave me a job, he can book a fancy hotel room, buy me some slutty clothes, and then do whatever he wants, he’s got another think coming.
I’m honestly stunned—I didn’t expect this from him at all. I can get another job where I don’t need to sacrifice my dignity, thank you very much.
Brock is standing there, arms crossed, looking very pleased with himself while I have a silent deliberation with myself.
“Come on,” he says impatiently, “what are you waiting for? You said you’d help me out to repay me for ruining that shirt. We’re running late.”
I stand there, open-mouthed. How can he be so brazen?
“Yeah, I said I’d help you out,” I say indignantly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to put a slutty costume on and let you do whatever you want to me in a hotel room. What the hell, Brock?”
Brock stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head.
And then, he bursts out laughing.
Brock
I feel kind of bad for laughing because she looks genuinely quite scared and offended, but what she’s suggesting is so absurd that I just can’t help myself.
“What exactly do you think I want you to do?” I ask her, more laughter bubbling up to the surface.
She looks like a rabbit in the headlights, her big, amber eyes widened.
“Well, the hotel room and the clothes, and . . .” Nina trails off then looks up at me. “Have I got this wrong? Because from where I’m standing, I’m sure you could forgive me for thinking you wanted ‘repayment’ for the favor in . . . well, sex.”
