Chapter 9
This is going to be a problem.
“But sir, he has a reservation.”
“And I’m telling you, he can’t stay in that room. There has to be something else.” Jacob’s face is stern, his brows furrowed, and it’s nice to see someone else be on the receiving end of his wrath for a change.
My father’s sitting a few feet away in one of the chairs in the lobby. He has his phone to his ear again, no doubt leaving Maggie yet another voicemail.
Per the front desk, Maggie hasn’t been here. Or at least, she never checked in. My father and Jacob tried asking if she maybe checked in under her maiden name, or if anyone with her physical description had been in the lobby, but the answer was always “no.”
Without any leads on where Maggie might have gone, we decided to check in and stay the night. Besides, I can’t keep driving, and my father still appears to be in no condition to take a turn.
“I’m telling you we don’t have any other rooms available,” the man behind the front desk says. “But the suite that he’s reserved can certainly accommodate three people. There’s a separate living room area with a couch that converts to a bed, so—”
“We don’t need the suite,” Jacob says. “We’ll take an ordinary room. Any other—”
“I’m sorry,” the man replies. “The honeymoon suite is all we have available.”
“Can we at least not call it that?”
The man checks the computer screen, then looks back at us, shrugging. “It’s a normal suite, but with the package that was requested. There’s champagne up there, and flowers…”
Jacob lets out a long sigh, then holds his hand out palm-up to receive the key. “I’ll get rid of that.” He turns to me. “Can you keep your dad down here for a little while? Maybe come up in fifteen?”
“Uh, sure.” Jacob heads for the elevator, and I go sit in the large velvet armchair that’s facing my father.
“Everything okay?” my dad asks, not looking up from his phone.
No. “Yes,” I say. “Just some logistics to work out, but it will be fine.”
He nods distractedly, slumped over in his chair. Tired and defeated and heartbroken.
A lump rises in my throat.
I wish I could turn back time and stop myself from drinking those last few glasses of wine. I wish I could have caught myself before my lips got too loose. I said things I’d meant, but that doesn’t mean I should have said them.
I don’t know. On some level I know I’m not completely responsible for Maggie running, or the wedding being ruined. I would just feel a lot better if I knew she was okay.
My eyes drift shut, only opening when a hand shakes my shoulder.
“The room’s ready,” Jacob says.
I blink, my vision a little blurry. I must have nodded off.
My father and Jacob are both standing, towering over me in the chair. But for a moment, Jacob’s face is soft, his hand still on my shoulder.
My eyes are dry. I blink again, still not quite awake.
Jacob’s mouth opens, but then, after a flicker of hesitation, he extends a palm toward me.
“Come on,” he says, his voice gruff.
I reach for his hand instinctively, and he pulls me to my feet.
“Thanks,” I say, but he lets go of my hand the moment I’m standing, already turning toward the elevator. My father and I silently follow him, and as we walk, my mouth opens in a wide yawn.
It must be contagious, because my father lets one out a second later.
It happens again inside the elevator, our reflections staring back at us as we yawn at the same time in the same way, both of us belatedly lifting a hand to cover our mouth.
I freeze mid-movement, then drop my hand, taking a step away from him.
It’s unnerving. A reminder that I share 50 percent of my DNA with this man I barely know. That gestures I don’t think twice about are identical to his.
Jacob unlocks the door to the hotel room with an old-fashioned key—no electronic passes in this place—and I hold back a gasp when I step inside.
It’s beautiful.
Thick royal-green drapes. Antique-looking wood furniture. Everything in this room screams “lush” and “expensive” and “classic.” There’s a fireplace with an actual fire going, and a set of French doors that leads to a giant bedroom with a California king.
The staff, or Jacob, must have pulled out the sofa bed, because it’s all set up in the living room, sheets and pillows artfully arranged. And he must have been successful in removing the honeymoon décor, because there’s not a single rose petal in sight.
“Uncle, you’ll take the bedroom.”
My father politely—and sleepily—resists, saying he’ll be fine out here, but Jacob pushes him forward, ushering him in there.
I sit in one of the chairs by the fire, enjoying this small piece of privacy and slipping my flats off my feet.
Good lord. I’m eternally grateful that I decided not to wear heels this morning, but these pointed flats don’t offer much in the way of arch support, and now that I’ve removed them, my feet are throbbing.
I lift my right foot over my knee and massage it, almost groaning at the relief I feel when my thumb slides along my instep.
“He’s almost asleep,” Jacob says, his voice low as he steps back into the room, shutting the French doors behind him.
“Good,” I say, switching my feet and massaging the other one. “He looked tired.”
“Yeah,” Jacob says. “I think we all are.”
He sinks onto the edge of the sofa bed. He’s completely still for a moment, then he raises his hands, rubbing his temples.
“Your dad was asking me what we should do tomorrow. And I didn’t—” He lets out a rough sound. “I don’t know what to tell him.”
He lifts his head, and his eyes meet mine. “What time do you need to leave in the morning?”
“I…” I stop, unsure how to respond. To make my flight, I’d probably need to leave here at noon, but I’m not sure if I want to do that. If I’m ready to go back with Maggie still missing. “I could postpone a day. Or two. To give us some more time.”
Jacob watches me, his pulse ticking in his throat. “You don’t need to do that.”
“But I have the car and—”
“We can rent another car. It’s okay.” He bends down, untying the laces of his shoe. “Besides, it’s not like we know where to go next.”
“You don’t think she went to Skye?”
He pauses, then continues removing his shoe. “It’s possible,” he says. “She’s always wanted to go, but I can’t imagine her doing it alone. Though yesterday I wouldn’t have imagined any of this happening, and now…”
He unrolls the high socks he was wearing with his kilt, his fingers long and deft as he slides the fabric down his calves.
The back of my neck heats.
I turn away from the fire just as it crackles, the flames flickering. Jacob’s face is cast in a warm glow in one moment, his brown skin almost golden, then hidden in shadow the next.
I excuse myself to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and retying my hair. I don’t have anything to sleep in, and though this dress was comfortable hours ago, the fabric is starting to chafe.
Maybe I can slip it off when I get under the sheets. I reach up, trying to undo the clasp at the base of my neck, but no matter how I strain, I can’t reach it.
“Would you mind—I need help getting out of this.” Jacob turns to look at me, and I wave a hand at the back of my dress. “I can’t reach the zipper.”
He stares for a long moment. “Sure,” he says, his voice a little rough. “Turn around.” He’s removed his suit jacket and untucked his button-down shirt, but his kilt is still on, and when he walks over to me, barefoot, it swings with each step he takes.
I wonder—briefly, the barest whisper of a thought—whether he’s wearing anything beneath it.
My gaze flits to his legs again before I remember I should be facing the other way. I turn quickly and sweep my hair over my shoulder to the front.
A second later, his fingers are at the nape of my neck.
He undoes the clasp efficiently, but the zipper catches when he pulls it down. He lets out an exhale, a harsh sound of frustration, and I feel it, wind traveling over the shell of my ear.
“It’s stuck,” he says. “I’ll have to—” He splays a hand over the top of my spine, pressing slightly, and my body responds to his touch as if by muscle memory, going lax, following his lead until I’m bending my shoulders down.
This angle gives him the leverage he needs, and the zipper lets loose, my dress parting to the middle of my back.
I hold it up against my front as it starts to sag around me. “Thanks,” I say, straightening, but as I do, my hips brush against his.
He’s taken his sporran off, so there’s nothing between us but the soft fabric of his kilt and the thin material of my half-on dress. I can feel him growing hard and firm, and my lower belly catches fire.
We only had hours together, and that night, we never did it like this. Him behind me, his harsh breaths in my ear, my head falling back on his shoulder.
I can picture all of it, how it could be, if we let ourselves have another night like that.
But then Jacob steps back, and that fire inside me dies.
“Sorry,” he says. His eyes are bright, filled with heat, but they bounce around the room, looking anywhere but at me. “I’ll just—” He gestures to the bathroom and walks that way, closing the door behind him.
I stare after him for a moment, then switch off the main light, leaving the room in the fireplace’s glow. I take off my dress, leaving my bra and underwear on, and slip under the sheets.
I close my eyes and try to fall asleep, but as I begin to drift, I hear the shower turn on. I imagine Jacob stepping underneath it, rivulets of water traveling down his chest. I picture what he may be doing, one palm against the cold tile, his head bent, eyes closed as he strokes himself.
Stop, I tell myself even as warmth climbs through me, pooling between my legs.
It’s inconvenient, this lingering attraction between us. And it’s clearly not one-sided. But we can’t do anything about it. I mean, I suppose we could, theoretically, but Jacob’s made it clear that he doesn’t want to talk about that night. That he wants to forget it ever happened.
He may want me physically, but he doesn’t like me, and that shouldn’t make my eyes sting. It shouldn’t cause a dull ache in my chest, because I don’t like him either. Not anymore.
I let out a huff of breath and turn onto my side, frustrated by the friction of the sheets against my skin, somehow irritating and sensual at the same time.
The sound of rushing water stops. Minutes of silence, and then the opening of a door, soft light spilling into the room.
I keep still, pretending to be asleep, and I hear the soft pad of footsteps. The crackle of the fireplace stops, the glow diminishing, and it’s only then that I wonder about our sleeping arrangements. I was lost to exhaustion and a hazy sense of want before, but now my heartbeat thrums in my ears.
He’ll climb into bed soon, and that will be perfectly fine. Perfectly platonic. We’ll just be two adults sharing the same space. We can do that. We’ve shared a lot more than that before.
But as I wait, minutes passing, I don’t feel the shift of the mattress. I open my eyes, looking out into the dark, and then I pull myself up, flicking on the table light beside me.
Jacob blinks owlishly. “What are you—”
“You’re sleeping there?”
He blinks again. He’s sitting upright in the large wingback chair I was sitting in earlier. There’s not an ounce of give to it, the structure of it stiff, the cushion hard and firm.
“You can’t sleep there,” I say.
He lifts an arm, rubbing at his chest, and my mouth grows dry.
I’ve seen him shirtless before, but there’s something about this combination.
His glasses still on his face, his posture straight and tall.
His expression is reserved and distant, but he’s not wearing anything but a pair of black boxer briefs, and I don’t know why this is working for me, but it really is.
I suppose he was wearing something underneath that kilt after all.
“I’ll be fine,” he says, keeping his voice low. “Go to sleep.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
His lips part, a disbelieving sound escaping him.
“There’s no way you’re going to get any kind of sleep sitting like that,” I say. “We’re adults. We can share the bed.”
“I can sleep in the car tomorrow,” he says. “You’re the one who needs the rest. Since you’ll be driving.”
“So you’re going to be fine sitting in that uncomfortable chair all night?
” I shake my head, deciding to change tactics.
“No. I won’t be able to fall asleep like that.
Knowing you’re just…awake. Staring into the darkness.
” I shift, moving to the edge of the bed.
“Just sleep here. You’ll stay on your side, I’ll stay on mine. It’s not that big a deal.”
Hesitation, and something else, flickers across his face.
“If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure.” I lie back down, turning to give him my back.
There’s a long minute of silence, and then the mattress dips, a soft creak of old springs as he settles on top of it. I prop myself up, twisting to switch off the lamp.
In the dark, his breathing seems louder.
I can hear every small aspect of it, the way it hitches when I lie back down.
And it’s not just louder, but closer. Because as much as I promised we could both simply stay on our sides of the bed, this pull-out bed isn’t quite designed that way.
This mattress—clearly past its prime—sags in the middle, pulling our bodies together.
We’re not touching, but I can feel him behind me, warmth radiating off his skin.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore the flash of memories flooding my mind.
His mouth traveling up my thigh.
The scrape of his teeth on my neck.
The scent of him then, peppery and woodsy and sinful.
The scent of him now. Clean, like soap and linen.
I squirm and it brings our limbs into contact, the back of my calf brushing his shin.
“Sorry,” I say immediately.
“It’s all right.” His voice is guttural, rough, and my cheeks flame.
“That wasn’t intentional,” I say, embarrassed. “I heard you, what you said before. That you didn’t want to talk about—”
He lets out a low groan. “Can we just go to sleep?”
I close my eyes. “Yes. Of course.”
I don’t know if he’s feeling exactly what I am, but he clearly doesn’t want to give in to it. I could be tempted, if he was interested, into something purely physical. Something to make this time pass by quicker. Another one-night stand. But he obviously doesn’t even like me enough for that.
I hold my body tight, resisting the dip in the mattress, straining my muscles so we don’t touch. I don’t know how long it takes, but it feels like hours before I finally fall asleep.