Chapter 8
Ethan
The elevator glides up so smoothly I can’t feel the floor moving. That alone makes me uneasy. Give me a snowmobile on black ice. Give me a shaky suspension bridge. Give me a cliff edge in a windstorm. But this quiet, floating luxury box? No thank you.
I stand beside Harper, trying to pretend I belong here, even though everything from my boots to my blood pressure says otherwise.
She smells like something exotic, but soft. No, not thinking about that … not right now. The doors open onto the top floor, and the hallway is all golden lighting, soft carpet, polished wood. My cabin could fit inside this hallway.
“This way,” I say, even though she already knows where we’re going. I just need to talk before I spontaneously combust.
We stop in front of the Honeymoon Suite door. Even the keycard slot looks expensive. Harper fidgets with her purse strap. “Um … do you want to … go in first? Or should I?”
Her cheeks are pink. Mine probably are too.
“Go ahead.” My voice comes out rough. Why did I do that?
She swipes the key and pushes the door open. The room hits me like a punch in the jaw. It’s definitely for honeymooners with the fireplace glowing. There’s a king-sized bed covered in rose petals. Champagne chilling on a tray. Candles everywhere like some sort of mating ritual.
I physically take a step back.
“This is …” Harper breathes, eyes wide.
“A lot,” I finish. Too much. Way too much.
I set our suitcases near the bed and eye a plush chair that probably costs more than my truck.
Harper turns to me. “So … what do we do now?”
I blink. “What do we do?”
Her face goes crimson. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, like … do we start unpacking? Do we talk? Do we look at the itinerary? Should we — I don’t know — turn on the TV?”
“I don’t watch TV,” I say bluntly.
She blinks. “You don’t?”
“Cable is expensive,” I say. “Internet too. Streaming? Forget it. A subscription to something called ‘PeriPlus’ tried to charge me twelve dollars a month for videos of a British man cooking eggs. I canceled immediately.”
Harper presses her lips together hard. Damn, she’s trying not to laugh.
“And Wi-Fi?” I continue, because now I’m committed. Absolute scam. The whole thing’s a racket. You pay monthly and then they throttle your speeds unless you buy an upgrade, and then they charge you fees for equipment you didn’t even ask for.”
A snort escapes her. A small one, but it’s there. She covers her mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh.”
“It’s fine.”
It’s more than fine. I would willingly rant about ten more unnecessary bills if it means she makes that sound again.
She takes a breath. “Okay. How about unpacking?”
“Sure,” I say. “Unpacking is … good.” Except it’s not. It’s a disaster waiting to happen.
She kneels beside her suitcase and unzips it. The lid opens — And everything bursts out. Clothes spill onto the plush rug.
Sweaters. Leggings. A silky something. And two delicate lace panties that land directly at my feet.
We both freeze.
Harper lets out a strangled squeak and dives for them. I crouch faster. Too fast. My hand lands on one pair the exact same moment her hand does. Her fingers brush mine. They’re so soft and warm. It sends an electric signal up my arm. I jerk back like the lace bit me.
“Sorry,” she blurts, mortified. “Sorry, sorry. Those weren’t … those aren’t …”
“You’re fine,” I manage, my voice a full octave lower than normal. “Just clothes.”
Not just clothes. Absolutely not just clothes.
The firelight glows on her cheeks as she stuffs the items back into the suitcase, avoiding eye contact so hard she might sprain something. I stand quickly, scrubbing a hand over my beard, trying to banish the heat pooling in my groin. I wasn’t expecting this. Any of this.
I’ve been alone for years. Comfortably alone. Safely alone. But five minutes in a honeymoon suite with Harper Fox and I’m …
God help me. Aroused. Flustered. Off balance. And completely out of my element.
She stands too, smoothing her dress. Her hands tremble slightly.
“We should … um … set some ground rules?” she offers.
Ground rules. Yes. Something logical. Rational. Safe.
“Yeah,” I say. “Good idea.”
We sit at opposite ends of the bed like middle schoolers forced to share a couch.
She folds her hands in her lap. “Okay. Rule one: respect personal space.”
My gaze drops to her knees, inches from mine.
I swallow. “Right. Personal space.”
“Rule two,” she continues, “we try to be polite. Even if things get awkward.”
“That’s fair.”
“Rule three,” she says hesitantly, “we don’t read into anything. It’s all for show. For the charity stuff.”
Something sinks in my chest. Something unwelcome.
I nod anyway. “Right. For show.”
Because what else can I say? That being around her knocks the wind out of me? That I haven’t felt this alive in years? That every time she blushes, it does something to me I don’t want to examine?
No. Not happening.
She exhales slowly. “Okay, good. We have the ground rules.”
As if the cat has both our tongues, we’re quiet. Too quiet. Maybe turning on the television isn’t a bad idea. It beats uncomfortable silence.
She glances up at me with her small stature sculpted in curves. Oh, that’s a mistake. Those eyes of hers. Too blue and too honest.
I stand abruptly. “I’m going to … check the fireplace.”
The flames are fine. This place probably has a luxury thermostat that controls fire by Bluetooth. But I crouch anyway, pretending to adjust the logs, trying to get my head on straight.
Behind me, Harper lets out a quiet breath. A soft one, almost a sigh. I grip the hearth. I am in so much trouble.
“So,” she says behind me, voice small but brave. “What’s next?”
I turn, leaning one arm on the stone edge. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging at her sleeves, waiting for me to answer. Trusting me to answer.
“Next,” I say, “we survive this week.”
Her lips part. Not in fear or doubt. In something else. Something dangerous that scares me way more than ice skating, tree lightings or cocoa tastings ever will.
She nods. “Okay.”
And just like that, I know. A week with her isn’t going to be nearly enough.