Chapter Four
Cole
The Bellwether is going to ruin me for all future shoots. This is a luxury hotel: the kind of place you bring a woman when you’re trying to prove you’re worth a damn.
Olive walls. Immaculate mahogany trim. Brass sconces throwing honeyed light. And carpeting so thick your footsteps get swallowed whole. It smells like cedar and the smug scent of people who think seven hundred dollars a night is pocket change.
I strut down the hall, gear bag slung over one shoulder, key card in hand. Not my first rodeo in a classy place like this (spoiler: it totally is).
Ivy walks beside me.
Silent.
Good. Silence means I can think.
I rewind the meeting in my head, cataloging my wins, clean and fast. Orson didn’t walk out, Blaze didn’t actually adopt anything.
And “Seal the Deal” isn’t a liability; it’s a hook.
Hooks are catnip for livestreams. Those first thirty seconds before everyone’s attention goes poof—that's where viral videos are made. I owned that room so yeah, she’s pissed.
Ivy walks in front of me, and I catch her scent of sweet and cidery apples. But there’s something sharper. Not ocean. Not perfume. Something clean… pool-adjacent.
Huh.
Noted.
Don’t do it, Cole. Do not inhale again.
SNFF-SNFF.
You idiot.
I stop at room 214. Swipe the card.
Red.
Swipe again.
Red.
“You’ve got it backwards.” Ivy’s nose remains buried in her iPad.
“It’s a key card, not brain surgery.”
“Exactly. Which is why it’s concerning you’re struggling.”
I flip the card. Swipe.
Green.
“Congratulations, Hartwell. You followed basic instructions.”
I push inside and the room stops me cold.
The suite is smoldering. Like being aggressively romantic for no reason.
Dark espresso walls. Beveled crown molding made by Jesus himself.
A chandelier that would escort me and my credit score out personally.
The ocean hums through cracked windows. And smack dab in the middle of it all—
One fucking bed.
The white linens are pulled so tight you could bounce a quarter off them. And pillows. Decorative ones stacked like a display case. Meaning: completely useless.
This room was designed for exactly one thing, and it’s NSFW.
“Blaze didn’t realize,” Ivy says. “The two rooms are different. Somebody should tell him.”
“Sure,” I drawl. “You go ahead.”
She doesn’t move.
I don’t either.
Neither of us is stupid enough to want to bother the man who’s holding our careers in his hands this weekend.
“He’s probably already turned his room into a tiki bar,” I say.
“Yeah, I bet he’s got Orson doing jello shots out of a seashell.”
“It’s fine. We’re professionals, Stopwatch.”
She nods. “We are.”
But am I?
It’s one bed. With a woman I would absolutely take to bed in a heartbeat under different circumstances.
She breezes past me as if I’m furniture and sets her suitcase on the rack.
Snap. Zip. Open.
Ivy starts unpacking and lining up her things with the kind of efficiency that makes me feel like a problem.
“I’m taking the bed. This was supposed to be my room.” She smirks. “You get the floor. Adjust accordingly.”
Without a word, I sling my duffel onto the center of the bed.
Unzip it. Flip it. Avalanche.
Jeans. Two black tees. A charger cord that whips like a tail.
Protein bars. Running shoes with odors that could knock out a horse.
My travel spork. Cufflinks. A GoPro on a selfie stick that doubles as a nunchuck (obviously).
A pocket knife that is for sure not TSA-approved.
And a half-empty bag of gummy bears that are 100% not legal in three states.
Ivy gapes at my pile. “No! What are you doing?”
“Expanding my territory.”
“That’s not how boundaries work.”
“They are when I draw them.”
“Let me break things down for you, since subtlety isn’t your strong suit. You and your disgusting pile are going nowhere near my bed.”
“Doesn’t look that way to me.”
Ivy marches over and carefully folds my clothes back into the bag.
“New rules,” she clips out. “Your side. My side. No crossing. Zero sprawl.”
“Define sprawl.”
She glares, eyes my spork, and holds it up like evidence at a trial.
“A spork? Really?”
I grin. “You never know when you might need to stab something.”
“I know the feeling.”
She drops it back in the bag without another word, then reaches into my pile again. This time, her hand pulls out a bright orange zipper case—my EpiPen.
“What’s this?”
“My get-out-of-death-free card.”
“You’re allergic?”
“Shrimp is out to get me.”
Ivy studies me for a second too long. Is that concern? Calculation? Annoyance that I’m apparently mortal?
She stuffs it back in with deliberate indifference.
“Don’t drop dead in my suite.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
She grabs a pillow. Slams it down the middle of the mattress. “This is the line. Do not cross it.”
I eyeball the line, nod like it’s a worthy opponent. Then I drop my forearm right next to it.
Her eyes flick to my arm. “You’re testing me.”
“I’m on my side.”
“You’re crowding the line.”
“I cherish the line,” I murmur. “We’re getting to know each other.”
Her jaw tightens. “I swear, you exist to annoy me.”
“Funny how you keep talking then.”
She jabs a finger at the pillow. “Cross that pillow, and I’ll cross your face with my foot.”
“So that’s your kink.”
I prop myself up, close enough that heat is rolling off her in waves (I know, I’m pushing it). The groan she makes belongs in a nature documentary.
“Easy,” I say, backing down. “Scout’s honor, I’ll be good.”
“Oh, spare me, Hartwell. You couldn’t behave if your life depended on it.”
I smirk. Fuck, I can’t help it.
If I’m lucky, it’ll hide the struggle I’m dealing with: the way my hands itch to reach for her again.
Ivy plows through her suitcase and extracts a makeup bag so large it could pass for a carry-on. She sets it on the dresser and starts unpacking (or is she prepping for open-heart surgery?). I catch mascara, brushes, and some tiny tubes of goo arranged by height. Naturally, she’s got a system.
“We leave in twenty minutes.” She uncaps a mascara wand and leans toward the mirror. “Everything has to be checked. If equipment doesn’t pass inspection three times, it doesn’t go near that Gala.”
“Make it four. I don’t trust odd numbers.”
She doesn’t dignify that.
I rummage in my bag and find my tuxedo shirt, neatly folded, of course, by her. Socks are matched, cords wrapped like little presents, and everything has a home. I give the bag a hard shake, restoring it to its natural state.
Grabbing the hem of my current shirt, I pull it over my head. The air is cool against my chest. I toss the tuxedo shirt over the chair back and turn to the mirror.
That’s when I catch Ivy, mascara wand raised and frozen mid-sweep, eyeing my chest.
Not glancing, not peeking. Eyes locked and loaded. On me.
I pick up the tuxedo shirt.
Set it back down.
Quick inspection. Rotate the shoulder. Tilt the jaw. Check my other good side. Run my fingers through my hair. Can’t disappoint the audience.
“Put a shirt on!”
“Just finishing my process.”
“Pretending you’re in a fitness infomercial?”
“Can’t rush my stubble check.” I rub my jaw. “You’ve stopped blinking, Stopwatch… should I take that as a compliment?”
I flex my forearms and don’t miss her quickly bite her bottom lip.
“You’re blocking my line of sight.” She caps her mascara wand.
“Uh-huh.”
Her eyes find mine in the mirror. One second. Two seconds. Three—
She breaks first.
I win.
She beelines for her suitcase, and I yank my shirt on. I button it one slow notch at a time, not looking up, pretending I don’t feel her stare burning into my chest.
I rifle through my bag, regretting the snow globe shake earlier. Of course the cufflinks vanished into the abyss.
Brilliant move, genius. Next time, just let the woman have her system.
I find one cufflink wedged in a sock. I get it pinched between my bratwurst fingers and spend the next forty-five seconds achieving absolutely nothing. These clasps were made by elves. The cufflink misses the buttonhole and—
The floor swallows it.
I stare.
I find it, pick it up, and start all over.
“Ground rules,” she announces.
She squares up, hands on her hips, and it shouldn’t be that hot… but it is.
“Should I sit down?”
“Room and weekend.” Her eyes narrow. “No touching my equipment without asking. No rerouting Blaze without telling me first. And no going rogue during live segments.”
I huff a laugh. “Blaze drove an ATV through the lobby, and fans started climbing furniture. I picked up a camera. That’s not rogue. That’s strategy.”
“You reacted.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t think.”
“I don’t need to think when something’s working.”
Her nostrils flare. It’s adorable.
“That’s the problem.”
I pretend to listen as I go hunting for the second cufflink. I shake the bag once, gently this time, and hear a faint metallic tink. Found you.
I’m fighting the clasp when she steps closer.
“Plans exist,” she says sternly, “so nothing goes sideways.”
I pin her with a glare.
“And instincts exist for when your plan meets reality.”
She takes another step. Now we’re so close the air between us feels tight… warm… very, very inappropriate.
My hands want to move. Badly. To drag my thumb across her bottom lip and see if she inhales or bites. Instead, I hold eye contact.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up. So quick I almost miss it.
She swallows. “I need to change.”
She grabs the dress and disappears into the bathroom, slamming the door.
I stand there, dumbfounded.
Knock it off. You’re not touching this woman. Not now. Not ever.
I scowl at my reflection.
She would let you reorganize her entire apartment before she’d let you near that red lace bra.
My disloyal brain supplies the image, and my body responds like a Pavlovian idiot.
I slap myself across the cheek. Hard.
The sting blooms.
“Focus. Gala. Promotion. Sea lions.”
I’m in a standoff with my bow tie (and losing hard) when the bathroom door clicks open.