Chapter 11
Hennessy
My entire body feels like it's been dipped in warm honey, muscles loose and skin glowing after three hours of pure bliss.
Money might not buy happiness, but it definitely buys a hot stone massage, hydrating facial, and a mani-pedi that has my toes and fingers looking like little festive masterpieces.
I adjust the plush hotel robe around my shoulders, making sure the thin tank and shorts I'm wearing underneath are covered enough to be decent.
Not that I particularly care about decency, but the last thing I need is some pearl-clutching snowed-in hotel guest complaining about me.
My chanclas slap against my heels as I walk, the familiar sound comforting as I make my way through the lobby.
The snow is still coming down in thick sheets outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the world beyond them a blur of white.
If I have to be snowed in somewhere, this hotel with its luxury spa, restaurant, and bar is definitely not the worst place.
I hum to myself, feeling lighter than I have in days despite being trapped.
Heading over to the front desk, I want to check something. The last thing I need is to get hangry because I missed the kitchen closing.
“Excuse me,” I say to the clerk, flashing my most charming smile. “I was wondering if the restaurant hours have changed because of the blizzard?”
Before she can answer, I feel him before I see him.
That prickle at the back of my neck, the way the air seems to thicken.
I turn slightly, and there he is—Beckham Kingston in all his perpetually annoyed glory, standing a few feet away at the other end of the desk, scowling at his phone like it personally offended him.
He’s in dark jeans and a black quarter-zip pullover that hugs his broad shoulders in a way that should be illegal.
Our eyes meet, and his scowl deepens. I can't help the smile that spreads across my face.
“Coach King,” I say sweetly.
He grunts something that might be a greeting, his eyes dropping to take in my outfit before snapping back up to my face.
“The restaurant will be open until ten tonight, miss,” the clerk tells me. “We've extended hours since no one can leave.”
“Thank you,” I reply, not taking my eyes off Beckham. “Looks like we're all stuck together, huh, Coach?”
“Apparently,” he mutters, shoving his phone in his pocket. “At least some of us are dressed appropriately for public spaces.”
I roll my eyes. “Really? That's what you're going with? Fashion police?”
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he growls, gesturing at my robe. “And why are you in public in it?”
I pull the lapels of the robe tighter, giving him my best scowl. “It covers more than most of my dresses, for your information. Excuse me for being comfortable.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek jumping. “There are children in this hotel.”
“Yeah, and they're all wearing swimsuits at the pool,” I shoot back. “But please continue telling me about appropriate attire, Mr. I-Bend-Women-Over-Tables.”
His eyes darken dangerously, and for a moment I think he might drag me into the nearest closet and remind me exactly what happened on that table. Instead, he turns to leave, clearly done with the conversation.
“Didn't peg you for the sensible type, Coach,” I call after him, unable to resist poking the bear.
He stops dead in his tracks, and when he turns back to me, the look in his eyes makes my breath catch.
“I'm not,” he growls, his voice dropping to that delicious rumble that vibrates through my core. “That's the problem.”
Before I can respond, he turns again and strides toward the elevators, his broad shoulders tense under his dark sweater.
I should let him go. I should head to my room, change into actual clothes, and stop antagonizing the man who makes my body hum.
Instead, I find myself hurrying after him, feet slapping against the marble floor as I catch up just as he's pressing the elevator button.
“Hey,” I say, sliding up beside him. “What do you think of my nails? Does the color suit me?”
I wiggle my fingers in front of him, showing off the perfect candy cane striped design the manicurist created—alternating red and white with tiny gold accents.
He stares at my hand like it might bite him. “Are you seriously asking me about nail polish right now?”
“Why not?” I shrug, admiring the glossy finish. “You seem to have opinions about everything else I'm wearing.”
The elevator doors slide open, and he steps inside without answering. I follow him in, not ready to let him escape that easily.
“It's festive,” I continue, turning my hand this way and that as the doors close behind us. “Candy cane inspired. I thought about getting little Christmas trees, but this felt more...me. Who doesn’t like long, hard, sugary sweets?”
He's pressed himself against the far wall of the elevator, as if trying to put as much distance between us as possible in the small space. His eyes keep darting to my hands, then away, like he's fighting some internal battle.
“So what do you think? Too much?”
“I think,” he says slowly, pressing the button for my floor and then his own, “that you're playing a dangerous game, Hennessy.”
I look up at him through my lashes, dropping my hand to my side. “Maybe I like dangerous games.”
His eyes travel down my leg to my foot, and I swear I hear him mutter something that sounds like “fucking hell” under his breath when he sees the same design on my toes.
The elevator lurches upward, and I take a step closer to him, closing some of the distance he's so carefully put between us.
“Or maybe,” I continue, my voice dropping lower, “I just want your opinion on my candy canes. I know how much you like them.”
“They're fine,” he mutters, his gaze now fixed on the elevator numbers as they climb.
“Just fine?” I press, taking another small step toward him. “That's all I get? Not 'they're beautiful, Hennessy' or 'they suit you perfectly'?”
“What do you want me to say?” he says, finally looking at me directly. “That I'm thinking about those red and white nails wrapped around my cock? That I'm imagining them digging into my shoulders while I fuck you against this elevator wall? Is that what you want to hear?”
I feel heat bloom low in my belly at his words.
“That's a start,” I whisper, just as the elevator dings and the doors slide open at my floor.
I back out slowly, holding his gaze until the last possible moment. “See you around, Coach King. Maybe at dinner?”
The doors close on his thunderous expression, and I exhale shakily, my heart racing. If looks could fuck, I'd be pinned against the wall right now with his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet.
As I walk toward my room, I can't help but smile. Trapped in a hotel during a storm with Beckham Kingston, who can barely keep his hands off me even while he's trying to push me away.
This winter storm just got a whole lot more interesting.