11. Hayden
11
HAYDEN
“ R ed? No.”
Lola huffs, clearly sick of me, but I don’t care. She’s dressed in a black pencil skirt with a v-neck button-down black blouse, and even a black belt around her waist. But the all-black look, paired with her sunny blond hair, somehow doesn’t seem dark.
Some people dressed in all black would look like they were heading to a funeral. But not her. She just looks professional and sexy as hell.
And it’s fucking distracting.
“Red would be the perfect pop of color in the room.”
I hate that she doesn’t back down. “Fucking red?”
“You have a problem with red? Would you prefer bright pink?” One hand rests on her hip as her head cocks to the right.
That question nearly brings a smile to my lips, but I fight it. “No.”
She looks around the bedroom in the second hotel. “Black bedding with very, very slight gold trim. Black drapes. You need some hint of color.”
“So, a red chair.”
“Yes.” She nods her head with conviction, and I give in.
“Okay. Fine.”
She walks to the corner of the room. “And what about a desk?”
“No.”
She turns to look at me, irritation creeping over her gorgeous face again as I watch her taking a deep breath, which keeps her from lunging to choke the life out of me. “Why? Hotels have desks.”
“Not this one.”
“This like your ‘no TV in the bedroom’ thing?”
Her perfectly manicured eyebrow lifts in amusement, and this time I do smile. She doesn’t like my rules. “Yes. No desk. Desks promote work. We’re promoting leisure.”
“Okay, Mr. Career. You’re telling me you wouldn’t be working nonstop if you were staying here?”
I take a seat on the edge of the mattress and loosen the tie around my neck. “I would be. I’m sure.”
“Exactly.” She points at me like she already knew that. “You and everyone I know is career-driven. Even when we’re on vacation, we’re working. The room needs a desk.”
“I told you what the bedroom is for.”
I like the blush that creeps up her neck to her cheeks at the mention of the bedroom. And my thoughts quickly move to what she’s like in bed. She’s a fighter, but she probably likes to be made love to. A sensitive soul.
Not for me.
“Fucking and sleeping.”
I smile, liking the word “fucking” coming from her mouth way too much. “Yup.”
She walks across the floor, surprising me when she joins me on the bed, crossing her ankles. “Desk in the living room area then?”
She looks through the doorway as if she’s already trying to imagine the desk out there.
“No.”
She groans, lifting her hands to cover her face and slowly dragging them down to sit in her lap. She turns to look at me. “No desk at all? You really feel that strongly about it? You and I both know that desk or no desk, a workaholic is going to work.”
I shrug. “So they will. I won’t encourage it though.”
“You’re infuriating.”
For whatever reason, that makes me laugh, a sound I haven’t heard coming from myself for a while. And it makes her smile.
Lola’s smile is dangerous. It’s as beautiful as she is with her bright white teeth and full lips, and it lights up her already beautiful face.
She was made for smiling.
“I’m a workaholic, but I want a place I can relax.”
“So you’re spending millions of dollars just to find a place where you can relax?” Her eyebrow is lifted, and she’s wearing a proud smirk.
“Well, if you can’t find it, build it.”
“Perfect motto.”
I smile, and it’s a real smile, one I feel deep down, one that’s trying to connect with hers.
Her eyes are fixed on mine, and the connection has been made. I could lean over and kiss her right now, and we’d both be powerless to stop it.
But I don’t.
And she doesn’t.
“Workaholics don’t usually promote relaxation.”
“I’ll be thirty in three days. It’s not supposed to be old.” My voice is quiet even if no one else is in the hotel. The construction crew left an hour ago. “But I'm so fucking tired.”
I watch her delicate throat as she swallows, and I swear she has unshed tears in her eyes as she studies me. “I know exactly what you mean.” Her voice is also quiet, and I know she does.
I want her to be a spoiled princess, the type I hate. But she has something deep under her surface.
The loss of her brother?
Maybe.
“Why did you leave your father’s company? You had it made there, I'm sure.”
She flinches at my blunt question and then straightens her back like the professional she is. “I didn’t want to be just Mr. Sterling’s daughter. I wanted to find out who I am without him.”
Fuuuck... I hate how perfect that answer is.
“That’s brave.”
She shrugs. “Not if you know my father.”
Daddy issues again. “I don’t.”
“You seem to know of me. My family.”
I’m going to give too much away. “I started my business in Kansas City. Everyone knows of the Sterlings there.”
She looks surprised, her pretty eyes shining with so many questions. “You’re from Kansas City?”
She’s going to find me out. It has to be obvious to her now. Of course, would it be so bad? Yeah. Maybe. “Yes.”
“I don’t remember a prominent West family there. We’re close to the same age. How didn’t we go to the same school?”
She thinks I grew up like she did. Privileged. Going to private schools.
“It’s a big city.”
She’s eyeing me with suspicion but seems to think better of calling me out. “I suppose it is. How did you end up here?”
“College.”
She nods her head, accepting my answer that, for the record, is not a lie. I worked my ass off and had a full ride to Stanford.
“No desk. No television in the bedroom, but a red chair in the corner.”
I turn to look at the bare corner and nod my head. “Yes.”
“Progress.”
“I like it.”
“Still hate me?”
My eyes can’t seem to look away from her plump lip after her question.
“I hate everything.”
Her lips turn up into another smile, and it’s knowing.
Because I don’t hate her. Not even a little.