Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Madeline
If there’s a hell specifically designed for Type-A people, I’ve officially checked in.
How could the hotel have gotten my reservation wrong?
When I called last week to re-confirm, not only did I request two rooms, but I asked that they’d be located on different floors on opposite sides of the hotel.
If this is the universe’s idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.
The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I step out, my suitcase wheels whispering against the carpet as I follow the gold-numbered plaques down the hall. Jesse trails behind me, irritatingly calm, acting like this whole thing is a minor inconvenience instead of a full-blown disaster.
Suite 712. My stomach knots as I stop in front of the door and swipe the keycard. The lock clicks, the door swings open, and…oh, fantastic. It looks like we’re checking into the damn honeymoon suite.
A massive king bed layered in white linens sits in the center of the spacious room, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city skyline.
A sunken jacuzzi tub is tucked into the corner and there’s a champagne bucket with a bottle already on ice beside the couch.
All that’s missing is rose petals scattered across the bedspread.
I stand frozen in the doorway, every cell in my body trying to reboot. How am I supposed to spend two nights alone in here with Jesse Winters?
As if on cue, Jesse lets out a low whistle as he comes to stand behind me. “Wow. Subtle.”
I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “Don’t.”
He lifts both hands, feigning innocence, though that crooked grin gives him away. “What? Is it the sheets? You’re worried about the thread count, aren’t you?”
“I’m starting to think you enjoy watching me suffer.”
He steps past me into the room, leaving his suitcase by the door. “It can be entertaining.” He glances around the suite with a look of amusement in his eyes. “You’ve gotta admit, they went all in.”
“I’m calling the front desk.”
“Be my guest,” he says easily, tugging his jacket off and tossing it over a chair. “But you heard the woman—everything’s booked solid. You’d have better luck finding a unicorn than another room.”
I pull in a slow breath, counting to five in my head. Somehow, I’m going to have to find a way to make this work. “Fine. But just so we’re clear—”
He looks up from where he’s loosening his watch strap, that hint of amusement still lingering. “Here we go.”
“—you stay on your side of the room. No crossing the line, no touching the thermostat, and absolutely no funny business.”
His brows lift. “Define ‘funny business.’”
“Anything that involves you coming too close to me.”
“Harsh.”
“Necessary.”
Very necessary. As much as Jesse is a pain in the ass—and he is— underneath that he can be really sweet.
I was reminded of that on the plane today, the way he talked me through the turbulence, the way he let me fall asleep on his shoulder.
I remember the feel of his hand on mine.
I remember how everything else disappeared and it was only Jesse and me, his thumb pressing against the soft, sensitive skin of my wrist.
Jesse Winters is temptation. He’s way too good at pressing every single one of my buttons. And no matter how often I remind myself that he’s my boss and he’s off limits, the truth is that everything about him—his relentless teasing, his easy smirk, his cocky charm—seems to turn me on.
I watch as he crosses the room to the windows, one hand in his pocket.
He leans against the frame, taking in the view of the city.
I decide to focus on unpacking, because if I keep looking at him, I’ll lose my mind.
The man could pass for an actual model. He’s tall—easily over six feet—and broad-shouldered, with a natural confidence that makes my pulse trip.
And then there’s the way he looks today, ditching his usual Cove office attire for a hoodie and a pair of faded jeans.
It’s casual, effortless, and unfairly sexy.
He knows exactly how good he looks, sleeves pushed up, hood half-down, cologne clinging to the fabric.
I tear my gaze away, walking to my suitcase unzipping my garment bag before my brain can betray me any further.
I pull out my dress for the gala and hang it on a padded hanger.
My pulse still hasn’t settled, and I doubt it will anytime soon, especially when I see him tug the sweatshirt over his head, leaving him in a white T-shirt that fits his body perfectly.
I can’t stop wondering what he looks like under his clothes.
Does he have chest hair, or is he all smooth skin and hard lines?
Are there tattoos hidden underneath that fabric?
My gaze drops to just below his belt buckle before I can stop it, wondering what else he’s hiding.
Is everything about him as bold and perfectly built as the rest of him?
My God, Madeline, stop it. I need to get a grip.
Desperate for a distraction, I keep unpacking until I hear the faint pop of the champagne cork.
“Seriously?” I say without turning around.
“What? It’s complimentary.”
I turn around to face him and shake my head as I watch him pour the bubbly into two crystal flutes. He holds out a glass, offering it to me. His eyes are soft and smoldering.
“Truce?”
I hesitate, watching the bubbles rise to the rim. The last thing I need is to have a drink with the man who drives me insane in more ways than one. But it’s been a long day, and my nerves are fried. “Truce,” I say finally, taking the glass.
Our fingers brush—just barely—but it’s enough to make the air between us shift and Jesse smiles like he knows it too.
He leans against the dresser, looking infuriatingly at home here.
Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised. I bet he brings his hookups to swanky hotels like this one on the regular. Gross.
I’m trying to wipe that mental image from my mind when he asks, “You always unpack right away?” He’s watching me as I line up my shoes in a neat row beneath the wardrobe.
“It helps me settle in. And my clothes need to be hung so I’m not a wrinkled mess,” I say, tugging up the zipper on my garment bag. “You don’t?”
He grins, setting his glass on the table. “My system’s a little more…” he gestures vaguely. “Free-spirited.”
“I bet it is.”
He laughs, low and easy. “That sounded judgmental.”
“It was,” I say, deadpan.
His grin widens. He picks up the room service menu and opens it. “You hungry?”
“I could eat,” I admit, smoothing the fabric of my jacket before hanging it up. I had coffee for breakfast and not much since then.
He hums, flipping through the pages. “What’s your go-to order, Mads?”
“Stop calling me that.”
“Noted, Mads.”
I shoot him a look over my shoulder, but he misses it, still scanning the menu. “How do you feel about burgers and fries?”
“That’s fine,” I say, trying not to be difficult.
“Great. Burgers and fries it is. And champagne.”
“You’re seriously ordering another bottle?”
He glances up, that smirk back in place. “We’re celebrating surviving a travel day. That counts as a special occasion in my books.”
I shake my head, amused despite myself.
By the time the food arrives, the first bottle is nearly gone, and my head feels pleasantly light. Jesse tips the server and wheels the tray inside. The smell of the food — butter and salt — makes my stomach rumble.
He lifts the metal cloches with a dramatic flourish. “Dinner is served. I slaved over a hot stove to make you this meal, Mads. I hope you like it.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “You’re crazy.”
“Crazy talented? Crazy charming? You’ll have to be more specific.”
“Crazy full of yourself.”
He points his fork at me. “Thanks.”
We eat on the couch, our plates set out on the coffee table in front of us and I try to ignore each time his knee brushes against mine. A ray of late-afternoon sun slips through the tall windows, catching in the bubbles of our champagne. Outside, the city stretches wide beneath a soft, golden haze.
“Did I tell you about the time Marco opened a client presentation with the wrong slideshow?” Jesse asks between bites.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m afraid to ask.”
He swallows, trying not to laugh. “Vacation photos of him and his boyfriend on a beach, shirtless. With captions.”
My jaw drops. “What kind of captions?”
He takes another sip of champagne. “Oh, you know. ‘Sun’s out, guns out.’ ‘What happens in Cabo stays in Cabo.’ That kind of thing.”
I laugh so hard I have to set my glass down. “Please tell me you’re exaggerating.”
“I wish. Poor guy went beet red. Becca printed the first page and taped it to the wall above his desk. She called it a ‘learning opportunity,” he says, putting air quotations around the words.
“Oh no. Poor Marco.”
Jesse smirks. “He deserved it. She probably would have stuck the whole thing on the wall, but it wasn’t entirely workplace appropriate. I didn’t tell you about the swim shorts. Didn’t leave much to the imagination.”
I laugh, head tipped back. Maybe it’s the champagne fizzing in my bloodstream, or maybe it’s Jesse, but I feel a little lightheaded.
I didn’t expect to see this new side of him.
He tells stories like he’s letting me in on a secret.
He talks to me in hushed tones when he knows I’m nervous.
He’s easy and funny and, for once, not trying to push my buttons.
The thought softens the knot in my chest. Whatever it is, I like it.
Because for the first time all week, I’m not thinking about tomorrow.
I’m not thinking about my parents or the questions I’ll have to answer or the smile I’ll have to fake.
I’m just here — tipsy, warm, and laughing — with the man who’s been driving me crazy since the day I met him.