Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Madeline
For a few blissful seconds, I stretch under the soft white sheets, sinking deeper into the plush mattress, letting the rich scent of coffee drift through the room. And then it hits me…this isn’t my bed.
My eyes flutter open. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with what my body already knows. I’m sharing a hotel room—a bed—with Jesse Winters. For one terrifying second, I replay every moment from last night, praying I didn’t do or say something mortifying.
No such luck.
I got into a jacuzzi in my bra and underwear with my boss. My boss. What in God’s name was I thinking?
And then I see him sitting shirtless in the armchair across the room, legs stretched out in gray joggers, laptop balanced on his thighs, bare feet crossed at the ankle.
His thick brown hair is perfectly mussed from sleep and he’s wearing glasses, black rimmed.
He’s criminally attractive. My stomach does a traitorous flip.
Of course, he’s one of those men who look even hotter in the morning.
He’s focused on his screen at first, but when I shift, his eyes lift and meet mine. “Morning, Mads,” he says, slipping off his glasses. His voice, low and rough from sleep, curls through my stomach.
I make a sound somewhere between a groan and a hum, dragging the sheet up higher around me, because my brain is still trying to reconcile my morning with Jesse half-naked in my hotel room.
“You wear glasses,” I say, trying to force the memory of Jesse in his boxer-briefs from my mind. “I’ve never seen you wear them in the office.”
He grins, a lazy, half-awake grin that should be illegal.
“I wear contacts, but I forget them at home.” He picks the glasses up from where they rest on the arm of the chair and slides them back on, eyes flicking to mine.
“So, what do you think, Mads?” he asks, tone low and teasing. “Hotter with or without?”
My stomach does a slow somersault. “You’re fishing,” I tell him, trying and failing to suppress a smile.
“Maybe,” he says. “But I like to start my mornings with positive feedback.”
“You seem pretty sure it will be positive,” I note.
“Ouch,” he says. He looks wounded, but his grin gives him away.
I push myself upright, suddenly conscious of the fact that I must look like a mess. Jesse is still looking at me, calm and unreadable, but suddenly it occurs to me that he was watching me sleep. The thought sends a strange little jolt through me. No, not strange. Dangerous.
I should definitely look away. Instead, my eyes betray me, trailing over the lean lines of his chest, and the way the morning light lands on the muscles of his abdomen. He’s not even flexing, but every inch of him is carved, tanned, and effortlessly masculine.
Saliva gathers in my mouth. God, get a grip, Madeline.
“Are you hungry?” he asks, like he hasn’t just short-circuited my nervous system. He gestures toward the sitting area by the window where a breakfast awaits on a silver tray—eggs and toast, coffee, and a glass bowl of fruit that looks like it came from a painting.
“You ordered breakfast?” I manage, finding my voice again.
He sets his laptop aside and stands. And just like that my brain malfunctions all over again. Every movement is easy and fluid. His joggers hang low, revealing a faint line of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.
“Of course I did,” he says, walking toward the window. “Can’t have you fainting halfway through the day. We’ve got parents to charm and politicians to survive.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
He chuckles, pulling out a chair for me like he’s been doing it all his life. “Come on, Mads. You’ll need caffeine for the battlefield.”
I slide out of bed, remembering a little too late that I’m still wearing my tank and shorts. My feet touch the carpet—soft as a cloud—and I follow him to the table, acutely aware of my racing pulse.
The view outside steals my focus for a second. Bluewater sprawls out beneath us, glittering and alive in the morning light, the harbor coming to life. Jesse pours orange juice into two glasses, handing one to me like he’s already decided I’m not allowed to lift a finger today.
“Thanks,” I murmur, fingers brushing his as I take it. The contact is fleeting but enough to send a tiny spark up my arm.
He sits down across from me and leans back, glass in hand. He watches me with that maddening, calm confidence in those hot as fuck glasses. “You sleep okay?”
I stab a piece of melon with my fork. “As well as one can when sharing a bed with their boss.”
His grin deepens. “Maybe we don’t mention that part to HR.”
I wince, groaning around the mouthful of melon. “Stop, please,” I plead. “I can’t deal with the thought of my new co-workers finding out about our sleeping arrangements.”
“I’d have to tell them that you were the one who booked the hotel, I’m just an innocent bystander in all this. Seems a little suspicious, Miss Color-Coded Sticky Notes.”
I pick up a blueberry and take aim at his head, but he ducks just in time, cracking up.
I can’t help but laugh too. “You’re never going to let the sticky notes thing go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
He’s teasing, but the same unspoken tension that’s been following us all week lingers, between the banter and the glances that last a little too long.
I spear another bite of fruit, trying to focus on the food instead of the man sitting across from me—impossibly good-looking, bare-chested, smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
The silence stretches—not awkward, but thick—until he finally breaks it. “Are you feeling any better about tonight?”
I exhale, setting down my fork. “Not at all. I’m terrified.”
“Don’t be,” he says reassuringly. “You’ve got this. You’re smart, composed, terrifying when you want to be. Your parents won’t stand a chance.”
I meet his gaze. “You’ve never met my mother.”
“Sounds like I’m in for a show.”
The teasing gleam in his eyes softens almost instantly, replaced by something gentler. He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, the morning light drawing attention to the gold flecks in his eyes.
“Seriously, Madeline,” he says softly. “I mean it. I want to be there for you this weekend. Whatever happens tonight, I’ve got you. You can trust me.”
My throat tightens and it surprises me. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” Jesse interrupts, his voice steady, all trace of humor gone. “I know this whole thing’s uncomfortable for you, and I know your family’s…complicated. But you can lean on me, okay? That’s why I’m here, so you don’t have to do it alone.”
The softness in his tone hits deep. There’s no pretense, it’s just Jesse, open and unguarded and real.
My chest tightens, and I feel a sudden sting behind my eyes.
God, I hate that he’s getting to me. I don’t even recognize this version of myself — the one who wants to lean into his voice, into his promise, and just let someone else carry the weight for once.
But that’s not me. It can’t be. Depending on someone has never ended well, and Jesse Winters is the last person I should be trusting with something fragile.
I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “You don’t need to worry about me,” I tell him, hoping I sound more confident than I feel. “I can handle my parents.”
He studies me for a long moment, his eyes searching mine like he’s trying to decide if he believes me. Whatever he finds there must not convince him, because for a second, he looks almost defeated. And then, just as quickly, that familiar spark returns.
“Okay,” he says suddenly, pushing his chair back and standing in one fluid motion. “If you say you can handle them, then you can also handle one tiny detour first.”
“What?” I blink, confused, as he rounds the table toward me.
“Come on.” Before I can protest, he takes my hand, his fingers curling warm and sure around mine. He tugs me up from my seat and without warning, spins me in a quick circle. “We’re going out.”
“Out?” I stumble trying to keep my balance, still clutching his hand. “Out where?”
“Somewhere that doesn’t involve stress, parents, or gala dresses,” he says, smiling. “I know you’ve got this, but I also know you’re stressed. So, I’m prescribing a distraction.”
“Oh, you’re a doctor now?”
“Practically,” he says with a wink. “Add it to the very long list of things about me that impress you,” he teases then he drops my hand and reaches for his phone. “Adventure awaits, Mads. Go get dressed.”
And against my better judgment, I do exactly what he asks.
“You’re not telling me where we’re going, are you?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as Jesse opens the door to a ride-share.
“Nope,” he says easily, tugging open the door and gesturing for me to get in. “It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I figured you would,” he says, grinning. “That’s why this is fun for me.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re standing inside a neon-lit arcade that looks like it was frozen in the early 2000s. The air smells like popcorn and machine oil. The lights blink, the floor hums. It’s ridiculous…and kind of perfect.
“Really? An arcade?” I ask, not willing to give Jesse the satisfaction of admitting that it’s actually a great idea.
“A vintage arcade,” he corrects, tossing me a rolled stack of coins. “And you’re welcome, Mads. Come on. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
I follow him through the maze of blinking lights and beeping machines until he stops at a row of basketball hoops glowing under a flickering red marquee.
Jesse feeds coins into two of the machines like he’s been training for this moment all year.
The machine dings and the clock starts as the balls are released to the game frames.
Jesse grabs his ball and lines up his shot.
It hits the backboard and drops into the net.
He glances over his shoulder at me as he waits for the ball to return.
“Let’s go, Mads! Clock’s ticking.”
I laugh. “You’re actually competitive about this?”