Reid
“ O h my god.” Noelle claps with delight, bouncing beside me in the doorway of our room. Our shared room. There are cardamom cookie crumbs on her coat. “It’s so—”
I cut across her. “Don’t say it. Do not say it.”
Because this room drips with more tinsel than a department store on Christmas Eve. Ugh. How can an intelligent woman have such dreadful taste?
“It’s like a separate blizzard blew through here and tossed cheap decorations everywhere. Vile.” I shrug off my coat and sling it over a nearby armchair, then march to the laundry hamper. “Help me with this.”
Noelle sighs and peels off her own coat, piling it on top of mine. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
Obviously. Because I’m her boss—inappropriate feelings aside—and if I spend ten more minutes surrounded by gaudy cheer, my head will explode.
So with much creaking of wicker and rustling of tinsel, we work our way around the room, stuffing armfuls of holiday tat into the hamper. Flecks of shiny tinsel stick to my shirt, and baubles thwump onto the pile one by one. I throw them harder than necessary.
“You are such a Scrooge,” Noelle says for the millionth time, lifting the holly wreath off the inside of our door. She lays it carefully in the hamper, like she’s settling down a precious child for a nap. “Tell me why you’re like this.”
“No.”
“We’re going to hurt Anirudh’s feelings.” Noelle folds her arms as I take down the pair of red and green stockings dangling from the mantelpiece, tossing them in the hamper without a second glance.
“I highly doubt that.”
“He’s saving our lives , . This is going to seem so ungrateful.”
Ugh. Fine. “I’ll leave an obnoxiously large tip. Feel better?”
Noelle rolls her eyes—but her shoulders do relax.
And with the decorations gone, the laundry hamper exiled to the corridor outside, this room feels much better. Uncluttered. There’s a double bed with a kitschy patchwork quilt; a mantelpiece and TV screen over an unlit hearth; a coffee table carved from oak. Several lamps that cast a warm glow, two squashy red armchairs, and a separate door leading to an en suite.
Where Noelle will shower at some point.
I’m going to hear her shower. I’ll be this distance away—barely any distance at all—and hear the water drumming through the wall, maybe the soft thump of a shampoo bottle. After she’s done, I could go in there and breathe the same steam.
Christ.
I’m unhinged.
And this is a terrible idea. I’m her boss , for god’s sake, and not the kind of man Noelle would ever want sleeping close. She probably likes cheerful men. Loud laughers and tight huggers.
Not prickly asshole bosses who snap at her all day, then obsess over her all night.
“On second thought, I’ll sleep in the car.” It’s probably warm in there, what with the snow heaped around the sides. Like a makeshift igloo. Cozy, and safe from bad decisions.
“ . ”
“You can put the ugly decorations back up if you like. I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t worry, I’ll still tip.”
“ .” When I finally force myself to meet Noelle’s eyes, she looks… hurt. Baffled. Oh, hell. “Are you seriously saying you’d rather sleep out in a blizzard than share a room with me?”
Am I?
Maybe.
Because—all that silky blonde hair, tumbling over her shoulders. Those wide brown eyes and those plump, pouty lips. Noelle is rumpled from a long day, pale with tiredness, but even with that creased green dress and those shadows under her eyes, she’s still beautiful. Unearthly.
This is why I can’t look at my assistant too much. Once I start looking, I can’t stop.
“No.” My throat is dry. “But I assume you’d be more comfortable in this room alone.”
“Well, you assume wrong. Like usual.”
I glare at Noelle. She glares back.
“This will be fun,” she declares. Laying down the law.
“I don’t do fun.”
But Noelle smirks, raising one eyebrow. “Haven’t you noticed, boss? You do with me.”
* * *
Noelle takes a long, hot shower, groaning with pleasure under the spray. I hear every drop of water, every pleased sigh.
It’s torture.
Out here in the bedroom, I pace in agitated circles, trying not to picture my assistant’s slippery, soapy skin in there, the water running in rivulets down her perfect curves. Trying to not imagine myself bursting in there and shoving my way inside the shower and pressing her against the tiles, feeling those groans vibrate against my lips.
There is a line, asshole.
There has to be a line.
Honestly, I’m not sure where that line even is anymore. But I know it exists, and I refuse to cross it.
Better safe than sorry, especially with Noelle. I’d rather spend the rest of my life miserable and alone than make my assistant uncomfortable.
She hums in the shower, the sound echoing against the tiles.
Gritting my teeth, I press the hard bulge of my cock, willing it to calm the fuck down.
When my assistant finally floats out of the bathroom on a cloud of scented steam, she’s dressed in a pair of the complimentary pajamas that we found in the dresser. The pants are far too long, bunching up above her feet, and the collared shirt slips to one side to show a glimpse of collarbone. Noelle towels her damp hair, watching me thoughtfully.
I scowl back, neck prickling at the way she’s got me under her microscope.
Because yes, my muscles are tense on my bones after listening to that shower. Yes , my face is hot, and my throat is tight, and I’m clinging desperately to the last thread of my control. What about it?
“No PJs for you?” she says. There was a second, larger pair in the dresser, with identical white and blue pinstripes.
“I’d rather die.”
Noelle snorts, padding to the bed and jumping up onto the covers. Bed springs plink, and one pillow slumps to the side.
“They do room service.” My hand is admirably steady as I point to the menu I left open on the quilt. “Pick something. Don’t take forever.”
“Oh, you charmer.” Shuffling around to sit cross-legged, Noelle pages through the Mulberry Inn menu. “Hey, look! They have a whole holiday-themed section.” A sly glance at me. “Think they’ll roast a ham at this time of night?”
Kicking off my shoes, I loosen my necktie an inch. “So sad that you don’t want your December bonus. Won’t your flea-bitten cat be disappointed? Billy, isn’t it? Brian?”
“You know his name is Bo. And he had fleas one time, you jerk.”
“My mistake.”
It’s easier than it should be to stretch out on the bed beside my assistant, my back propped against the headboard. I cross my ankles and fold my arms over my chest. No accidental limb-brushes here, even though Noelle’s freshly scrubbed skin smells like lemon-scented soap.
I am in control.
“Want to watch a movie?” she asks, already digging around for the remote.
In. Control.