Chapter 4
JULIAN
Iwake to silene…to absence.
That’s the first thing my body registers is the unmistakable wrongness of an empty space beside me. The sheets are cool where her warmth should be. A faint floral scent lingers, but the woman herself is gone.
I sit up sharply, pulse already accelerating. Where’s Iris?
I scan my surroundings automatically. Doors, windows, bathroom, my training kicking in before my brain fully comes online. No signs of forced entry. No disturbance. Just a meticulously undisturbed hotel suite and the imprint of a woman who slipped away without waking me.
I run a hand over my face, jaw tight. I don’t sleep through exits. I don’t miss movement. No one has ever sneaked out of, or sneak up on, my bed unnoticed.
And yet Iris Brooks did.
Which is infuriating. On several levels.
I told her last night would be one night. No expectations. No complications. A clean, mutual agreement sealed by desire and good timing. So why does my chest feel tight?
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, the faint ache in my muscles a reminder I don’t regret the night itself, only her absence this morning. I scan the suite again, half-expecting her to reappear, hair mussed, mouth sharp with a quip.
Nothing.
I check the time. Early. The city outside the windows is just beginning to stir, light creeping over San Isidro’s skyline in pale gold.
She quietly and deliberately left before dawn.
I should admire that she managed that without waking me, but instead, I’m irritated enough to grind my teeth.
I shower quickly, dress faster, my movements clipped and controlled. I tell myself this is nothing. That I’m annoyed because she caught me off guard. Because I failed to maintain awareness. Not because I want to see her again.
That’s another lie, and I know it. But I’m going to have to stop counting when it comes to this woman because she’s obviously bringing me to the brink of insanity.
The thought of her disappearing into this city without so much as a goodbye twists something sharp in my gut. I need closure, and yes, I know how stupid that sounds after I told her we’d have only one night together.
But with Iris Brooks, I need more than this.
If she’s staying here, she might be at the roof-top restaurant for their breakfast service. Journalists love high vantage points, right?. Open air, a sense of overview. Those are things I like too, plus the food is divine.
I take the stairs two at a time, my growing irritation fueling the pace.
By the time I push through the glass doors onto the rooftop terrace, the sun is fully up, bathing the city in light.
Yesterday, when I was up here, I found that light warm and beautiful.
Today I find it glaring, and it’s giving me a headache.
San Isidro sprawls below, its colonial rooftops and modern high-rises tangled together, and the surrounding jungle pressing in at the edges like it’s reclaiming its territory inch by inch. The air is warm, heavy with the promise of heat and chaos.
And there, near the railing, coffee in hand, that glorious hair with a color I still can’t decide what to name pulled back in a careless knot, is Iris.
Relief hits first. Then annoyance. And then something dangerously close to want.
She’s changed into a turquoise sleeveless linen dress and her sunglasses are jauntily perched on her nose. She’s biting into a big croissant, and even from where I’m standing, I can hear the moan she makes as she enjoys the rich, buttery flavor. It’s the same sound she made in my bed last night.
My cock instantly stands at attention.
As if she feels my gaze, she turns and freezes when she sees me.
A flicker of surprise passes over her face as I walk up to her table. “Good morning,” she says, carefully neutral.
“Is it?” I reply, stopping in front of her. Fuck, I didn’t mean to sound so grumpy.
Her lips twitch. “Depends who you ask.”
I cross my arms, studying her. “You left.”
She lifts a brow. “I did.” No apology. No fluster.
I respect it. I hate it. “You didn’t wake me,” I say.
Her gaze sharpens, just a fraction. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate that.”
“I would have.”
“That’s debatable.”
I lean closer, lowering my voice. “No one leaves my bed without me noticing.”
Her mouth curves, slow and provocative. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
Touché. I exhale through my nose, forcing myself to loosen my posture. This isn’t an interrogation. At least not an official one. “Why?” I ask.
She shrugs lightly. “You said one night. I didn’t want to complicate things.”
The words land harder than they should. “And yet here you are,” I say. “Having breakfast.”
“At the hotel where I’m staying,” she replies pointedly. “Which happens to have excellent views.”
“So you are staying here.” Inside, I’m groaning at my inane repetition of information we’ve already covered.
“Yes.”
“Good.” Right, then. Time to move this conversation along, or at least get my brain back online. I gesture to the empty chair across from her. “Can I join you?”
She hesitates, then nods. The pause irks me more than it should, and the chair scrapes against the floor as I pull it out a little too fast and sit down.
The table is small. Intimate. Our knees brush under it, but she doesn’t move her legs, and that calms me a little.
A server appears. I order coffee and a croissant. Silence stretches between us, both awkward and charged.
“You look tense,” Iris finally says lightly.
“Do I?”
“Yes,” she says. “Like someone stole your wallet.”
“Or slipped out of my bed without waking me.” I know I need to let it go, or at least pretend that it doesn’t bother me, but my mouth did not get the memo.
Her gaze flicks up, meets mine, and holds. “I didn’t think you’d want to have breakfast together,” she says.
I lean back slightly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you don’t strike me as someone who lingers once he’s decided that something is a one-off thing.”
She’s annoyingly perceptive. The server brings the items I ordered, and I take a sip of my coffee to hide my thoughts and get it the fuck together. “What do I strike you as?” I ask.
She tilts her head. “Someone who compartmentalizes.”
I smile, slow and deliberate. She’s fucking brilliant, this woman. “Careful, Brooks. That almost sounds like profiling.”
“Journalist,” she reminds me. “It’s my job.”
“And what are you covering here in San Isidro?” I ask, changing the topic before she gets any closer to seeing the real me.
She narrows her eyes. “You’re deflecting again.”
“Sure am.”
She studies me for a moment, then sighs. “Fine. I’m here to cover the royal wedding.”
That, of course, makes sense. “The princess and her American groom?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Princess Ximena. She’s a fashion icon who’s marrying an American tech. billionaire.” She waves her hand around in the air. “Old money meets new. International interest. Huge gossip appeal.”
“And you’re thrilled,” I say dryly.
She smiles, but then turns serious again. “I’m grateful,” Iris corrects. “It’s a big assignment. Especially for someone fresh out of school.”
“But.”
“But,” she echoes, rolling her eyes, “I don’t want to write about dresses and guest lists forever. I want to be a foreign correspondent. I want to cover genuine news. The kind that matters.”
Something about the way she says that, quietly and fiercely, makes my chest ache. “And this,” I say while rubbing the twitching spot on my pectoral, “isn’t genuine enough?”
She looks out at the city below. “San Isidro is a powder keg. You can feel it. Something’s coming. And everyone’s distracted by a wedding.”
She’s not wrong. I watch her over the rim of my coffee cup. “Ambitious.”
“Is that a criticism?” She scrunches up her adorable nose.
“No,” I say. “An observation.”
She smiles, satisfied, but looks down to hide it. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why are you here?” she presses. “Really.”
I meet her gaze evenly. “Diplomatic relations. Cultural exchange.”
She snorts. “You’re terrible.”
“Am I?”
“Yes,” she says. “You’re too careful with your words and use too few of them. It’s suspicious.”
I lean in, voice low. “And you’re asking questions that could get you into trouble.”
“That’s my job. And there you go pointing out danger again. Are you sure you’re not threatening me?” Her eyes spark.
We hold each other’s gaze, tension winding tight. For a moment, I forget why this is dangerous. Why I shouldn’t want this. Why I shouldn’t want her. “I should go,” I say abruptly.
She blinks. “You just got here.”
“I know.”
She studies my face, then nods slowly. “Right. Of course.”
I stand, then pause. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”
Her lips curve as she tilts her head. “The pleasure was all mine.” And then she winks.
Fucking winks. Like our time in bed was nothing but the casual thing I told her I wanted it to be.
“Right,” I say, not knowing what to do, so I just nod and walk out, fuming, for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely.
I stab the lift button three times, and then when the fucking thing takes forever to get there, I stab it three times again.
It doesn’t make the lift get there any faster, and my temper has not calmed the slightest when Iris joins me, standing slightly behind me.
Even though I can’t see her, I know it’s her because of how my body, especially my cock, stands at instant attention, and because of that light floral scent in the air.
I’m going to need housekeeping to change my sheets or I’m going to go fucking bonkers having to smell that on the pillow next to me tonight.
“So,” she says slowly, stretching the word into three syllables. “Elevator not cooperating?”
“Lift,” I sullenly mumble, like a pouty five-year-old.
“Pardon?”
“It’s called a lift,” I say, louder, still not turning around.
“Oh, okay,” she says, and then repeats, “lift,” in a fake British accent that’s so ludicrously posh I bark out an involuntary laugh.
I turn around and the sweet smile she gives me stabs my chest. “Hey,” I say.
“Hey, right back at you.”