Chapter 7
Savannah
Morning light slices through the cheap motel curtains like judgment.
What part of me feels guilty? I roll onto my back, one arm flung across my eyes, and replay last night in fragments remembering the neon lights, the smell of beer, and the feel of Cash’s hand at the small of my back.
How can I forget the way he smiled each time when he knew it got to me?
Lord help me!
I’m supposed to be immune to charm. It’s literally in the job description. Yet one slow dance with Cash Dalton and I’m standing on the edge of professional disaster.
A text buzzes on my phone. Marlene, of course.
Status report?
I type back: Alive. So is he. No fights, no arrests.
Before I can hit send, I hear the unmistakable sound of a man whistling outside my door. Deep, lazy, and entirely too pleased with himself.
I close my eyes. Please, no. Then a knock. Three slow raps.
I glance down at myself in a tank top, no bra, silky pajama shorts, bare feet on cool tile, hair a tousled mess that even a miracle couldn’t tame. Fantastic. Exactly how every professional dreams of greeting a client.
I open the door to find Cash leaning against the frame, hat in hand, coffee cup in the other. His jeans are new but his grin is the same old trouble.
“Mornin’, boss lady.”
“Don’t call me that.”
He holds out the cup. “Peace offering. Figured you’d need caffeine after all that worrying you did.”
I take it because it’s coffee … and because ignoring him seems impossible. “You’re up early for someone who doesn’t like taking orders.”
“Didn’t sleep much.” His eyes roll over me, catching the mess of my hair, the faded tee I threw on. His grin deepens. “Guess I was thinkin’ about that dance.”
I tighten my grip on the cup. “You were drunk.”
He shakes his head. “Two light beers don’t make me drunk. I remember every second. Especially how mad you were.”
“Mad is my natural state when you’re involved.”
He chuckles. “Then I’m doin’ somethin’ right.”
I step aside, motioning to the small table by the window. “If you’re here for a briefing, sit. If you’re here to flirt, leave.”
He sits. “Can’t a man do both?”
“We have a press meet at nine, then sponsor photos, and a signing event at noon. Try not to set anything on fire before then.”
He leans back in the chair, legs stretched out. He’s the picture of relaxed defiance. “You really think I’m that bad?”
“I think you like being that bad.”
He grins. “Depends on who’s judging.”
I pretend to scroll through notes, but my heart’s beating too fast. He’s watching me … really watching, eyes soft instead of sharp for once. It does something unwise to my pulse.
“You don’t have to look at me like I’m a ticking bomb,” he says quietly. “You can just … talk.”
That throws me off. “Talk about what?”
“Why you hate your job so much.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Last night, you looked like someone who wanted to be anywhere else. Like you’ve been doin’ this too long.”
“I don’t hate my job.”
He studies me like he’s calling a bluff. “Sure about that?”
I swallow hard. “This isn’t about me. It’s about you keeping your image clean.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But sometimes I think you’re tryin’ to scrub somethin’ off yourself, too.”
That hits deeper than I want it to. I grab my tablet, trying to break the moment. “We leave in ten minutes.”
He stands, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. “Can’t wait. I’ll meet you at the truck.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the scent of coffee and cedar soap hanging in the air, along with the inconvenient truth that I’m no longer sure who’s managing who.