Chapter 11
Laurel
“What do you mean there’s only one room under my reservation?” Mason asks the hotel concierge. “There should be two.”
The man behind the desk goes pale which is impressive, because he was already pale when we walked in, looking exhausted from what I assume has been a very long day of explaining to very wealthy sex toy executives that the entire city of Amsterdam is fully booked.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says. “There must have been some kind of mix-up.”
Mason goes very still.
“And let me guess,” he says, voice dangerously quiet. “With the convention in town, there are no available rooms?”
The concierge swallows. “Not in the city.”
Of course this is happening. Because apparently the universe looked at Mason Sinclair and me after eight hours on a private jet, two hand-holding incidents, one almost-kiss, and a suitcase full of poor decisions and thought, You know what would help? One room.
Mason looks like he’s on the verge of having steam come out of his ears. I should let him intimidate this poor man until the hotel magically produces a second room, a spare castle, or maybe an emergency houseboat. Instead, I touch his arm.
Immediate mistake. His whole body tenses beneath my fingers. So does mine. The contact is brief. Barely anything. My hand on the sleeve of his sweater. Still, heat shoots up my arm like I’ve touched something live.
“Mason,” I say softly.
His eyes cut to mine. For a second, the lobby disappears. The concierge. The marble floor. The ridiculous floral arrangement large enough to hide a body. All gone. Just his arm under my hand and the memory of him almost kissing me somewhere over the Atlantic.
I pull my hand back.
“It’s fine,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “It’s not fine.”
“It’s a room. We’re adults.”
That is a bold statement from a woman who packed a nine-inch dildo because might want to see what it feels like later…
“I’ll take the couch,” I add, giving him a tight smile. “Come on. We both need sleep before the presentation tomorrow.”
“No.”
I blink. “No? I don’t think you can reject my offer on my behalf.”
“I can when it’s a bad one.”
“Fine. Then you take the couch.”
His expression doesn’t change. “I was already planning to.”
The concierge clears his throat. “It is a suite, sir. There is a sofa, but it may not be suitable for—”
“I’ll manage,” Mason says.
The concierge shuts up immediately. Smart man. He hands over the key cards with the sort of trembling politeness that makes me feel terrible.
“Your luggage is already being sent up,” he says. “Again, we’re very sorry for the inconvenience.”
“It’s not your fault,” I tell him.
Mason gives me a look.
“What?” I ask as we head toward the elevators.
“I’m pretty sure it is his fault. He’s the one who overbooked the hotel.”
“I’m choosing kindness.”
“How unlike you.”
I gasp. “Rude.”
His mouth almost curves. Then the elevator doors open, and whatever tiny relief I felt evaporates when we step inside. Because it’s just us. In a mirrored elevator. After a long flight. After an almost-kiss.
After finding out we have to share a hotel room in Amsterdam.
My reflection looks too composed for someone whose nervous system is currently trying to crawl out of her body and book its own separate accommodation.
Mason stands beside me, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he’s using every muscle in his body to keep from reacting. That should not be attractive. Unfortunately, it is.
“You can still go to another hotel,” I say.
His gaze jumps to mine in the mirror. “The concierge said there are no rooms.”
“You’re Mason Sinclair. I’m sure someone would give you their room if you glared hard enough.”
“I’m not leaving you alone.”
My breath catches. Just a little. But I think he hears it.
The air changes. The kind of change I’ve started to recognize too well.
One second we’re bickering. The next, I’m wondering what it would feel like if he turned, crowded me against the elevator wall, and finally did what he almost did on the plane. My pulse jumps.
His gaze drops. Not to my mouth this time. Lower. To where the black wrap dress crosses over my chest.
The elevator dings. Thank God.
We step into the hallway, and he walks ahead with the key card, quiet and controlled and far too broad-shouldered for my peace of mind. The room is at the end of the hall. He unlocks it and pushes the door open, then steps aside so I can enter first. I walk in and stop.
It’s beautiful. A huge suite with dark wood floors, soft cream walls, enormous windows overlooking a canal, and golden light spilling across everything like the room was designed specifically for bad decisions.
There’s a sitting area, a fireplace, a soaking tub visible through frosted glass. And there’s a bed.
One bed.
A massive bed.
A bed so large and white and obscene it might as well have winked at me.
Mason steps in behind me and stops too.
“Absolutely not,” he says.
I point toward the sitting area. “There’s a couch.”
He looks at it. So do I. It’s stylish. Tiny. Definitely hostile. Mason is six foot something and built like a man who ruins furniture by existing near it. If he sits on that thing it’s going to crumble beneath him. I press my lips together.
He catches it. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was just thinking it’s a very nice couch.”
“Laurel.”
“For decorative purposes.”
He exhales through his nose, and I turn away before I smile too much. Our luggage is already inside, lined neatly by the wardrobe. My suitcase and bag sit beside his. Smaller. Less expensive. Containing one item that now feels like a ticking bomb.
I cross the room too quickly and grab the bag. “I’m going to unpack.”
“No, you’re not.”
I turn. “Excuse me?”
“You’re going to shower, eat something, and sleep.”
My brows lift. “Are you always this bossy in hotel rooms?”
The second the words leave my mouth, I want to snatch them back and bury them under the canal.
His gaze locks on mine. For one long second, neither of us breathes.
Then he says, “Only when bratty women test me.”
Bratty women? Why does that send a rush of heat right between my legs?
I want a subject change so badly that I say, “Sleep in the bed.”
His eyes darken and I realize the sentence too late.
“Oh my god. Alone,” I snap. “I meant alone.”
“Did you?”
I drag my suitcase and bag toward the wardrobe. “Yes. And I’ve changed my mind. You can take the couch tonight, and tomorrow we’ll figure something else out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out.”
“We’ll see.”
I move the bag too fast and the contents shift. A scarf slips out. Then something heavy thuds against the floor. For one horrible second, I just stare at it.
So does Mason.
The massive dildo lies between us on the hardwood floor like a crime scene marker.
I close my eyes. Amsterdam has not even been kind enough to let me sleep before ruining my life.
Mason’s voice comes from behind me.
“Shoes?”
I turn slowly.
He is watching me with the closest thing to a real smile I have ever seen on his face.
I hate him. I hate that he’s beautiful. I hate that I’m probably never going to recover from the sight of Mason Sinclair, in jeans and a dark sweater, standing in our one shared hotel room while a dildo sits on the floor between us.
I snatch it up and shove it back into my suitcase. “Shut up.”
His gaze drops briefly to the bag. “You brought it across an ocean.”
“I didn’t want customs to think I lacked ambition.”
“You shouldn’t have brought that,” he says quietly.
My throat goes dry. “Why?”
“Because now I’m wondering what you planned to do with it.”
My pulse slams. I should make a joke.
Instead, I lift my chin. “Maybe I was curious.”
His jaw flexes. The silence that follows isn’t empty. It is packed full of every warning.
Then Mason turns away first. He drags a hand through his hair and looks toward the windows like the canal might offer divine intervention.
“Take the bathroom,” he says. His voice is rough.
I swallow. “Mason—”
“Please.”
That shuts me up. Not because it’s cold. Because it isn’t. Because it sounds like he is one word away from forgetting the couch, the presentation, the ring on his finger, and every single reason this room is a disaster.
I grab my toiletry bag and the first set of pajamas I can reach.
Then I walk to the bathroom with my spine straight and my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. At the door, I make the mistake of looking back.
Mason is still by the window. Hands braced on his hips.
Head bowed. The perfect picture of a man losing a fight with himself.
I step into the bathroom and shut the door. Then I lean against it and close my eyes. Honestly, I deserve hazard pay.
I turn on the shower hotter than necessary and stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my brain stops shouting.
It never stops shouting, though, it simply changes topics.
Now it’s shouting about Mason in the other room.
Mason in jeans. Mason laughing. Mason looking at the dildo on the floor and asking what I planned to do with it like he had any right to sound that interested.
I press my forehead to the shower tile.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
By the time I get out, I feel marginally more human and significantly more doomed.
Then I look at the pajamas I grabbed. Black satin shorts and a matching black camisole. Because apparently, when my body is panicking, my hands become traitors. I stare at them hanging from my fingers.
I need to get something else, but my suitcase is outside. With Mason. And the bed. And the dildo.
So I put them on. The shorts are short. The camisole is soft and thin, with little lace straps that do little to keep my large breasts contained. Wonderful. I brush my teeth, comb my hair, and wrap myself in the hotel robe like it’s body armor. Then I open the bathroom door.