Barbie #2
“Of course,” he says. “Do you need my help getting off?” I nearly pull a muscle in my neck when I tilt my head back to gawp at him. “The elevator,” he tacks on with a dimpled half-smile.
“Why not? I’m sure you could help get me off the elevator,” I whisper. “You could get me off so good.”
“Oh, yeah?” He doesn’t blink as his gaze bores through mine. “You think so?”
Resisting the urge to bite my bottom lip is proving to be quite a challenge. Even more so when my thoughts keep entertaining the idea of him pushing me up against the elevator—I force myself to think of literally anything else.
“Definitely,” I murmur, not even blinking as I stare him down. “I’m sure you and that… big ego of yours can get me off so quickly.”
“I don’t have a big ego,” he says. “I have a perfectly normal-sized ego.”
“I’ve worked with you for two years now,” I say baldly before I can help myself. “You are so egotistical.”
“Me?” His smirk drops. “I’m not the one who always tries to have the final say.”
Well, there goes my half-assed plan to flirt with him this entire conference—to mess with him. I don’t need another reminder that he’s the same guy who’s stressed me out for the past two years. The very person who’s fought tooth and nail with me over every little thing.
My brain needs to remember that he’s not just the hot plane guy who’s super flirty or the hot nice guy who stopped me from having an anxiety attack. He’s also the evil hot coworker and soon-to-be hot former colleague.
On a side note, I really need to stop thinking about how hot he is. It’s doing me no favor at all.
“Right,” I say flatly, and I spare him a cool look as the elevator dings. “In your intro to psych class, this is what they’d call projecting.”
Without sticking around to hear his response, I grab my suitcase and slip out into the hallway.
Neither of us says anything as we walk side-by-side to our suite.
I don’t think I can go through another round of dodgy euphemisms. Or argue with him over spreadsheets and SOPs.
He taps my shoulder, and I look over to see him tipping his head at the door to our right.
Thank God. I really want to take a shower and put some much-needed space between Carter and me, so I can gather my bearings and come to terms with the fact that we were genuinely flirting with each other. In the most deranged way possible, but still.
He keys us in, and I freeze at the sight before us the moment he flicks the lights on.
There’s only one bed.
And a couch.
One massive bed with all the bells and whistles: fluffy pillows of various sizes, clean sheets that look like they’ve never been used, and a complimentary basket placed on the corner filled with rolled towels, snacks, and what appears to be a handwritten note.
The couch has a dark stain on one of its two cushions.
In a room that’s definitely not a suite. Not unless there’s a hidden room through the closet door that we’re just not seeing right now.
“There’s been a mix-up,” he says, streaking his fingers through his tousled hair. “Clearly. It’s not like they messed up when they booked our suite for us.”
They messed up when they booked our suite for us.
I shouldn’t be surprised, considering how often there’s always a fire at work, like the one time one of our coworkers accidentally deleted half of the reports from earlier this year before the big investor call.
Or the time someone sent internal emails to clients, which then sparked the whole is this insider trading? debacle.
Besides the mix-up, there’s no vacancy, no cancellation, and no other hotels in the nearby area.
There’s a bed-and-breakfast that Ed’s staying at that’s not too far from here, but after a quick phone call, we got confirmation from a super apologetic clerk that the place has no rooms left for the night or the rest of the week.
I’m cranky. Beyond exhausted from the thirteen hours of flying and the two hours spent trying to find another room. I want nothing more than to shower, brush my teeth, and go to bed.
At this point, we both have to come to the same conclusion.
We have to share the room tonight and hope someone checks out tomorrow morning.
But I wouldn’t be surprised if we’re stuck sharing the hotel room for the entire duration we’re here.
This area is a bigger tourist trap than I’d expected.
There’s no way anything will become available anytime soon.
“Thank you for being such a nice guy,” I begin, “and opting to sleep on the floor.”
“There is a couch right there,” he grits out.
“If you insist,” I say, and we both eye the stain at the same time. “You are so brave—”
“I’m not sleeping on the couch.”
“Oh, suddenly the floor is on the table again?” I ask. “Well, maybe the floor doesn’t appreciate being the second choice.”
“I’m taking,” he says, enunciating every vowel, “the bed.”
“You can take the floor,” I reply curtly.
“I’m too tall for the couch.”
“Which is why the floor is the best choice for you. Look at all that space,” I say. “Prime real estate right there. It’s so roomy. Spacious. Perfect for you and that massive ego of yours.”
He scrubs his hand down his face for the fifth time tonight. “You would make a terrible real estate agent.”
“Good thing I’m not a real estate agent.”
“Nope.” A weary sigh escapes him as he looks up at the ceiling for a long moment. “You’re just my coworker, Malibu Barbie.”
“It’s Barbie Ho,” I say stiffly, “Carter whose name starts with an E.”
“That cannot be a real name.”
“It is a real name, Carter whose name starts—”
“It’s Ethan,” he says. “And, look, I’ll… let you have the bed if you lend me your laptop. I need to finish my mission statement, and my laptop is—as you know—indisposed at the very moment. I’ll even buy you pistachio ice cream if you let me borrow it for just an hour.”
My eyes go wide for a split second before they narrow. “Pistachio ice cream?”
“Your favorite,” he states, and it’s not like he’s wrong. I am, in fact, slightly partial to pistachio. As moths are slightly partial to flying into porch lights and Americans are slightly partial to never using their turn signals.
But I never disclosed this during either flight we were on today. I was too busy trying to suss out if we were astrologically compatible to reveal my flavor of choice.
“You’ll let me have the bed,” I say slowly, “and buy me pistachio ice cream If I loan you my laptop for ten minutes?”
“I’ll need more than ten minutes to finish—Don’t.”
All I can do is press my lips together and stare pointedly at the dark stain on the couch cushion. Dammit. I can’t utilize the mute button to laugh my ass off like I do at work.
“Don’t what?” My older sister is the one with the acting background, not me, and my inability to keep my lips from twitching into a full-blown grin is a major proponent of why. “Don’t make it easy for me, Cartographer.”
He doesn’t even blink. “An hour to work on my slides,” he says, “and you can have the bed for the first night.”
My mouth stops twitching. “Excuse me? Just for the first night?”
“You’re getting pistachio ice cream out of this, Barb,” he says, and I’m about to say I’d rather get the bed every night we’re here when I smile something sweet at him instead.
“You know what?” Distrust shines in his eyes and sparks my amusement. “Sure. Why not? Work on outlining your mission statement. I’m going to take a nice hot shower—” There’s a subtle dip in his gaze, and my tongue inadvertently loses its ability to form words.
For my sake, it needs to stop doing that.
“Do you still want to give me your number?” he asks, and that rough voice he makes is really doing something for me again. “And see where it’ll take us?”
Oh God. It’s different when he’s genuinely flirting with me.
“Nope,” I say with a saccharine smile. “Have fun working on your slides, Ethan. It’ll be all the fun you’re gonna have in these four walls.”
“Are you sure about that?” His voice goes even lower, and I feel heat spread underneath every inch of my skin. “Might be good to have each other’s numbers in case there’s an emergency.”
“I’m sure.” And before he can get in another word that’ll make me feel hotter than the baking sun, I grab a change of clothes and scurry off to the bathroom, still clinging to the idea that I might wake up in my bed at the start of today and that the hot guy I meet on my flight isn’t my coworker from hell.