Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Because at this rate, I’m going to do something very stupid.
Chapter 20
Conlan
I’m up early the next morning. Instead of going right down into my home gym, I take the time to make coffee, and not just for myself.
I make some for Isabel and bring it up to her room. The whole way, I’m wondering what the hell I’m doing. Delivering room service isn’t usually my thing. When a woman sleeps over at my place, I’m trying to get her the hell out, not taking care of her instead.
But here I am, standing outside of my guest room, feeling like a fucking idiot.
I knock and wait a minute before she answers, looking groggy.
“Here,” I say, shoving the oat milk latte at her, done the way she likes.
Which is a minor miracle, considering I’ve never known anyone’s coffee order except for my own before.
She stares at the cup. “Conlan, it’s five-thirty in the morning.”
“You should get up. We’re heading to the office in an hour.” I hold the coffee closer. “Drink this.”
She takes it, hesitates, but takes a sip. Her eyes widen. “Oh. That’s good.”
“Great.” I turn away. “I’m working out. Be ready in an hour.”
“Hold on. What exactly is this right now? Did you just wake me up to give me coffee? Did you actually make this?”
“Don’t get used to it.” I stalk off, cursing myself. What’s wrong with me? I should just leave her alone, except I can’t help it.
I keep thinking about that kiss—and about her comment as she got into the car.
I won’t ever get to feel her perky ass.
Except I want to. Fucking badly.
More than I’ve ever wanted something, which is saying a lot, because I’m the kind of man that wants.
I work my frustrations out in the gym. I’m thinking about her the whole time, about how she’s only right upstairs, maybe in the shower, maybe getting changed, and I could walk in there, find her naked and vulnerable—
I do fifty sit-ups every time I picture her naked.
Which means my core’s going to be even more shredded.
After cooling off and showering, we head to the office together. Halfway there, she turns to me. “Thank you for the coffee,” she says.
My eyebrows raise. “That was over an hour ago.”
“I never said thanks. So now I’m saying thanks. Don’t look into it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Good.” She glares at me, face flushed. “And Conlan? Don’t kiss me again.”
“That sounds more like an invitation than a denial.”
“I’m serious. Don’t kiss me without warning, okay? We need ground rules.”
“It was for the detective.”
“Whatever, I know that, but still.”
“This is complicated enough and now I’m going to have to worry about kissing my own wife?”
“I’m not really your wife.” She squirms in her seat. “Just warn me, okay?”
I keep my face as neutral as I can. “You liked it.”
“Stop. I knew you’d start this.”
“You really liked it if you’re putting yourself through my shit.” I lean closer. “Do you want to kiss again?”
“No,” she says, eyes widening.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind. You’re a good kisser.”
“Stop teasing me. Can you just be serious for one second?”
“I am being very serious. You enjoyed that kiss so much you can’t stop thinking about it.”
She balls her hands into her fists. “This is why I didn’t want to do this. You can’t just respect what I have to say. You always give me shit, you know that?”
I tilt my head. My smile fades. “I’m not trying to give you shit.”
“Well, you are. I’m being vulnerable here, okay?”
I take a breath. She’s right. It’s not easy to talk about this stuff, but she’s trying anyway, and I keep punishing her for it. So what if she liked that kiss? I liked the kiss—I loved the kiss. But it doesn’t matter.
“I’ll ask you before I kiss you in the future,” I say.
“Thank you.” She relaxes. “And the coffee was good.”
“I’m glad.”
And I find that I really am. I’m happy I did something nice for her, which is a goddamn mess, and not like me at all.
We reach the Lincoln, and the second I’m out of the car, my head of guest relations comes striding over with a panicked expression. She’s a tall woman with dark brown hair in her early forties. “We have a problem, Conlan.”
“Hello, Lisa,” I say. “And good morning to you too.”
“Did you tell Allison Leyland that she can decorate the entire pool for some party she’s throwing tonight?”
My eyebrows shoot up. I exchange a look with Isabel—she’s as surprised as I am. “Show me,” I say, not sure what to expect, but I’m guessing it won’t be good.
Lisa takes us inside, through the lobby, down the side hall, and out the employees-only exit, which spits us near the pool.
Which is where we find Allison diligently placing tiki torches, hula hoops, fake blow-up palm trees, and a smattering of pineapple-themed decorations all over the area, draping them off the cabanas, creating a perimeter around a table she has set up near the outdoor bar. It’s rudimentary, but she’s got more decorations stashed off to the side, enough to deck this place out in a vague Hawaiian theme.