Chapter 7
Seven
Claire
The champagne tastes like nerves—sharp, fizzy, a little too dry. It dances over my tongue in a way that feels mocking, like it knows why I’m drinking it. I take another sip anyway, the chilled glass almost slippery in my fingers.
The shower’s still running and I’m having a hard time not thinking about how Seth is in there. Naked. Water running over his muscles.
Claire. Quit it. Think about something else.
My hands run over the comforter, heavy and cozy, perfect for the cooler months. I lean back, checking in with my body, noting how comfortable it is. Thank god. I couldn’t handle the travel day we had then having to sleep on something like a soft version of a rock.
The bed. Singular. One. Just one. Maybe if I wish hard enough, it will split in two.
I stare at it, waiting for it to suddenly sprout a polite little sign reading, “Don’t worry, he’ll take the floor!
” I’d be next level asshole if I asked him to sleep on the floor, considering he went through the same amount of stress.
Plus, if I'm being honest, I don’t think I want him to.
That’s the problem.
I cross my legs and uncross them again, tugging at the hem of the lingerie that isn’t warm in the slightest. This would be perfect for Miami, but tonight?
Not so much. Even with the shifting and tugging, my skin is on display and I’m cursing my light packing.
It was going to be a quick trip, only a few days—our stylists had everything waiting for me for the events so I didn’t have to bring much of anything.
Jokes on me as I wear practically nothing, nervously listening for signs that Seth’s done with his shower.
A positive is how much I adore this lingerie. It’s from my favorite designer and it’s the perfect blend of a delicate and stunning lace pattern with matching silk panties underneath. My hands rub down my thighs, pressing into the tight muscles and relishing in how good I feel in this.
The water cuts off. My stomach flips even though it has no business doing so. Chill out. Knock it off. Be professional. This is a man you have to sort of work with.
I stare at the empty glass on the end table, willing it to magically fill again. I’m too afraid to get up and have to rapidly cover my ass if Seth comes out.
I can hear him toweling off. The low hum of his voice as he mutters something to himself. His laugh—quiet, surprised, like he remembered something funny. I want to ask what it was.
Which is ridiculous. We barely know each other. We’ve crossed paths and been in the same place while working, but we’ve never had a serious conversation.
The bathroom door creaks open, and I look up.
He steps out in nothing but a pair of low-slung black athletic shorts, his skin still damp and glistening.
Water beads trail down the sculpted lines of his torso—shoulders broad, chest firm, abs so sharply defined they almost look carved.
There’s a tattoo just under his ribs on the left side, a glimpse of dark ink I can’t quite see all of from here.
His hair is wet and messy, pushed back like he ran a hand through it, but a few strands fall forward over his forehead. He slings the towel around his neck and catches me staring. I look up, too slow to be subtle.
His eyes find mine—dark, unreadable—but there’s something there, something quieter than his usual smirk. And I swear, for a split second, he looks just as unsure as I feel but almost as if he’s loving this.
I try to swallow past the sudden desert that’s taken up residence in my throat, but it’s like my entire nervous system just declared a state of emergency.
Did I forget how to drink? Breathe? Function as a basic human being?
My tongue feels like it’s made of cotton and betrayal, and all I can think is: Please do not choke on your own spit right now. That is not the vibe.
“What?” he teases as he catches me staring.
“It’s kind of unfair.” I playfully slap the bed next to me before crossing my arms, trying to cover as much of myself as I can.
He turns his body side to side, like he’s trying to stretch, and I am still trying to figure out his tattoo.
“What’s unfair?”
I sigh out a low breath, looking up at the ceiling, scolding myself for not thinking before I speak. Why the fuck did I start talking? I’m usually much better at this. “You, looking like this. All muscles and your salt-and-pepper hair. You’re all hot and mysterious—”
“Wait, you think I'm hot?” Seth leans closer to me, cupping his ear. “Is that what I heard?”
And he fucking winks at me. He’s such a tease. It’s like we’re both playing a game, even though no one shared the rules or how we determine a winner.
“Seriously, do you need to do like five hundred crunches before bed or something? Don’t let me stop you from whatever it is you do to look like that,” I joke while counting his abs.
He laughs and it catches me off guard. It's honest and authentic and makes me smile to match him.
“No crunches tonight. I just like the gym. I like running. It’s been part of my routine for so long.”
Ah, so he’s a runner. Believe me when I say, I would rather get a root canal than have to run. I’ve tried it—searching for the runner high people brag about—but all I got were blisters, sore muscles, and a level of boredom that’s hard to explain. It's just not for me.
“Also, I like that you’re telling me I’m the one who’s being unfair when you’re wearing that.
” He gestures to me, and I'd be lying if I said it didn’t feel fantastic for him to look at me the way he is—eyes wide, the green vibrant in the hazel, and smirk painted on his lips, pushing his cheeks up.
“You’re the one who isn’t playing fair.”
Fuck me. My hands fly to my mouth, happy when I realize it was just an internal thought and not something I actually said aloud. I know my cheeks have to be red with how hot I feel, and I sense the color deepen when Seth brings the bottle of wine over, pouring some into my flute.
“Okay, birthday girl. What’s the plan for tonight?”
There it is again: birthday girl. Swoon.
Looking at the clock, I’m surprised it’s only eight o’clock. Damn, it feels so much later. Full day, that’s for sure.
“We’ve got wine. Snacks…” He looks over to the basket waiting for us on the small bistro table in our room. “Can watch a movie. There’s games in the lounge. Or, we can go to bed early. Completely up to you.”
My muscles are tired; I'm certain I could fall asleep right now but I don’t want to. The idea of spending more time with Seth is too enticing. Also, wine and snacks are always a good choice.
“If you were home, wrapping up your day, what would you do?” he asks, breaking my thoughts.
Using my new vibrator is the honest answer, but not the one I give.
“Honestly? Wine and a movie isn’t too far off.” I shrug my shoulders.
Seth smiles and I’m glad I’m sitting down because I'm on the verge of melting. He grabs his champagne, a few snacks from the basket, and slips into the bed next to me.
He fluffs the pillows behind him, propping himself up, and shimmies his shoulders when he settles in. I look over and I can see his tattoo.
Three numbers, black and bold.
171.