Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
My office was filled with the scent of paint from the contractors finishing up in the lobby down the hall, a smell that made me slightly dizzy but one I associated with success. Specifically, my success. Paint meant progress, and progress meant more hotels.
On my desk, supplier invoices were stacked in a precise, color-coded pile, while a reminder for a video interview I had scheduled with a potential pastry chef blinked insistently on my computer screen.
I should have been concentrating on her impressive resume and reviewing my notes about some of the confections I’d drooled over on her Instagram page, but my brain kept wandering.
Instead of focusing on the experience I wanted to offer our clientele and whether she was a fit for that, my mind kept drifting to memories of this past weekend —the scrape of polished wood under my palms as I pushed up onto my toes, my thighs trembling as I pressed back against Gage’s cock, the sound of his voice rough in my ear, the relentless, almost punishing way he’d wrung every ounce of shuddering pleasure from my sweat-slicked body.
I shifted in my chair, crossing my legs tighter beneath my desk, willing the images away.
I didn’t need this sort of distraction. Not now.
Lord knew I couldn’t afford it. Not with my older brothers breathing down my neck every day like sharks scenting blood in the water.
I had to get this hotel opened on time—and under budget—and prove to the Bellrose board that I could step into my father’s footsteps when he retired next year.
The problem was, Gage hadn’t left me with a choice in the matter. That handsome, infuriating cowboy had absolutely ruined my concentration … and my ability to do my goddamn job right along with it.
After he’d fucked me six ways to Sunday with zero emotion or feeling, it was more than clear to me that any romance he’d been chasing before he knew my last name was no longer what he wanted.
Now, all it seemed like he was interested in was my body.
And wasn’t that precisely what I needed from him, too?
His parting words as he’d sauntered out of my house really were the perfect compromise. He could sate every aching, desperate need I had, while I kept my professional focus where it belonged.
No mess. No entanglement. Just sex.
I reached for my phone before I could overthink it, my thumb hovering over his name—yes, I was as resourceful as he’d accused me of being.
One quick call to Senator Rafferty, and I had three different ways to reach Gage.
During my conversation with the good senator, I’d also learned he was keen to get Gage to run for local office.
He’d outright said that if I had any sway with the infuriatingly hard to pin down cowboy, he’d more than welcome my efforts.
Interesting … and noted. But tonight, politics was the furthest thing from my mind.
Tonight, I was doing something I’d never done before: setting up a booty call.
Did folks still call it that? I wondered as I began typing, my hands shaking.
I tapped out the first line, then deleted it before trying again.
God, why did this feel more difficult than negotiating with my brothers and their lackeys?
This wasn’t rocket science or open-heart surgery—it was asking a man who very clearly enjoyed having sex with me if he wanted to keep doing it.
It was also something I’d never done before.
Had never even been tempted to do.
I blew out a breath, bracing myself, and hit send.
Siena
I think we need to clarify some things.
Three dots appeared, then vanished, only to appear again. My heart hammered for what felt like eons but was probably only a few seconds.
Gage
That right, darlin’?
I sat up straight and squared my shoulders, my fingers flying over the virtual keyboard. He wanted to be coy?
Fine. I’d be forthright instead. No-nonsense. I’d stop giving my nerves power over me and just say outright what I needed from this man.
Siena
Whatever this is between us, it can’t be more than sex.
Those damn dots danced again, and this time it absolutely was more than a few seconds. I knew, because I counted. Out loud.
Gage
I’m sorry. Did I give you the impression it was more than that?
Heat flared in my cheeks, humiliation and relief tangling until I couldn’t tell one from the other.
Siena
Did I hallucinate you cornering me in the grocery store to ask me out on a date?
Gage
That was weeks ago.
Siena
Before you knew who I was?
And what? Now you want nothing to do with me.
Gage
Well, I wouldn’t say nothing.
I think you know I want your body all the fucking time.
But you’re right.
It can’t be more than sex between us.
Siena
Good. Because I don’t have time for complications.
I have a hotel to open.
My pulse stuttered as I typed out words I swore I wouldn’t ever say to any man: “But I also can’t stop thinking about the way you touch me.” My thumb hovered hesitantly over the send button. I shook my head minutely and then let my words fly through the ether.
The admission looked reckless on my screen, but it was the truth.
One I needed to continue.
Siena
So here’s my proposal: no strings, no expectations.
Just what we both want.
The wait before his response stretched interminably long, and my mouth started to go dry. I reached for the Stanley on my desk, emptying it in three long gulps.
Gage
Just tell me when and where.
A shiver raced down my spine, equal parts victory and foreboding.
I set the phone down on my desk, my eyes taking in the neat piles of invoices that’d still be there tomorrow, the blinking reminder for the interview that was scheduled for … ten minutes. Rational Siena told me I was playing with fire.
But the part of me that still trembled from the memory of his mouth on the back of my neck as he pounded into me?
If I were going to get burned, I’d enjoy every damn second of it.
Siena
My house. Tonight.
Eight o’clock.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the acoustic tiles as if they could talk me off the proverbial ledge. My pulse thudded in my throat, the kind of adrenaline spike I usually only got when a make-or-break site inspection went sideways.
Oh my god. I’d just scheduled sex like it was a board meeting. What on earth was wrong with me?
And why did it feel so goddamn good?
The phone buzzed. I told myself not to look. I lasted three seconds.
Gage
See you then.
Three tiny words and my whole body lit up like I’d swallowed an electric rod.
I set my phone aside face down, reminding myself that distractions were the last thing I needed.
I pulled my laptop closer, forcing my racing thoughts back into their neat, compartmentalized lanes.
The Zoom interview window with the pastry chef was open and waiting for me to join.
I skimmed my question list one last time and underlined a note about gluten-free pate à choux.
My thumb, seemingly of its own volition, slid the phone toward me again.
No, enough. I shook my head forcefully, feeling my long, tight braid swish along my spine. You have work to do. Important work.
My receptionist pinged me on chat to let me know my pastry chef candidate was in the online waiting room. I pasted on my family Bellrose smile and clicked “Admit.”
“Good afternoon, Dahlia,” I said, my tone bright and professional. “Thanks for being flexible with the time.”
She launched into a polished elevator pitch about her time at Le Cordon Bleu, the three seasons she’d worked at a five-star in Whistler, and how she had a soft spot for passionfruit curd.
I asked about chocolate tempering in a dry Montana winter and her thoughts on adding a huckleberry mille-feuille to the menu for shoulder season.
All throughout, I nodded, took copious notes, and smiled.
It was a good conversation. It should have thrilled me, but I was distracted. Again.
My traitorous phone buzzed against the desk.
I kept my eyes on the camera and didn’t move. My face stayed composed while my pulse tripped over itself like a foal finding its legs.
When we wrapped, I thanked Dahlia, promised to follow up shortly, and ended the call. The second her square winked out, I snatched my phone.
Gage
I want you waiting for me in your bed.
Naked, in case that wasn’t clear.
Heat licked low in my belly. Bossy man.
Siena
I’ll think about it.
Gage
Don’t think.
Do it.
I blew out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh and set the phone back down, my palms suddenly slick with nerves.
For the next couple of hours, I tried to work. I really did.
I responded to two vendor emails and signed off on a revised banquet diagram for the Bridger Falls Historical Society’s gala, scheduled for after the new year. Every few minutes, my gaze slid to the clock, as if it had gravitational pull. The minutes seemed to mock me.
At a few minutes past five o’clock, I closed the lid on my laptop.
“Siena?” my assistant poked her head into my office. “Do you need anything before I go?”
“I’m good,” I said, gathering up my belongings and pushing up from my seat. I almost never left before anyone else. “Great work on organizing the vendor matrix.”
“Umm, thank you.” Her perfectly manicured eyebrows flew up her forehead when I started walking toward her. “You’re leaving?”
“Sure am,” I said, sailing past her with a broad smile, chuckling under my breath at the way her jaw was hanging open.
I stalked through the building and out to the parking lot, the November sky steel blue that made everything feel sharp at the edges. My heels clicked a staccato beat on my way to the car, each sound feeling like a tiny countdown to … tonight.
By the time I reached my house, my nerves had settled into a steady thrum that lived somewhere between my ribs and my thighs. I dropped my bag by the entry table, toed off my heels, and bee-lined for the bathroom.