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IVY
Ford searches the room, his face contorted as if he’s struggling with something. His tongue darts out and licks his lips.
“No,” he says at last. “As much as I want you, we can’t. Anyone can walk in on us. I don’t want to see you get hurt by the out-of-control rumor mill.”
Despite the pulsing sensation between my legs, I know he’s right.
“Okay,” I utter. “I’m sure you have a busy schedule, anyway.”
He chuckles softly. “Production is temporarily shut down until the snowstorm passes. The only place I need to be is between your legs. Now let’s go.”
He grasps my hand and leads me out of the room. His head swivels as we walk through the corridors of the spa. Any hint of someone nearby, and he stops and waits until they pass before grabbing my hand again. Before we enter the main lobby of the hotel, he stops.
“I’ll leave first. Wait a minute or two before following me,” he instructs.
I nod before he pushes the door open and steps out. Just as he said, I follow him a minute later and walk through the lobby toward the elevators.
To anyone passing by, we look like two people waiting for an elevator. There’s a good bit of distance between us, and Ford is doing an excellent job of seeming disinterested by keeping his face buried in his phone.
My eyes slide over toward him, taking in his rugged features. His jeans are old and faded, with frayed edges around the pocket. His chambray button-down shirt looks just as ancient. The sleeves are rolled up, revealing his massive forearms, and there are multiple cords of leather wrapped around his wrist. Never in a million years did I think I’d catch the attention of a man like Ford Harmon.
The elevator dings, signaling its arrival, and shakes me from my thoughts. Ford turns his head just in time to catch me staring, and a smirk ghosts across his lips. He motions for me to enter first before he joins me in the elevator car.
“What floor?” he asks.
“Four, please.”
He slowly leans forward; his arm brushes against my breasts as he presses the button.
“It won’t be too long now,” he whispers.
The sexual tension between us fills the tiny space, crackling like electricity. I shift on my feet and Ford shoves his hands deep into his pockets.
And then it happens.
The elevator comes to an abrupt halt.
“What did you do?” I blurt out.
“Nothing.” Ford reaches out and presses the buttons over and over. “It must be the storm.”
Panic builds inside me, overtaking the desire that once consumed me. “Can you make a call or something? Please?”
He takes his phone from his pocket; his fingers fly across the screen.
“Damn it,” he curses. “Cell service must be knocked out too.”
“Ford…” I groan.
His eyes lock on me and instantly fill with concern. “Are you okay, princess?”
“No, I’m not. I’m claustrophobic.”
He runs his hand along my cheek and pushes my hair back behind my ear.
“It’ll be okay,” he says, his voice low and soothing. “Don’t these things usually have a phone?”
“I-I think so.”
