Chapter 8
One bed. One fucking bed…it’s a plot twist designed to ruin me.
Sharing a room with her was already going to test every ounce of my control, but this is a whole new level of torture, one I’m not sure my self-restraint, or dick, will survive.
The only thing keeping me sane right now is knowing she’s even more rattled about it than I am. Something I plan to milk for all it’s worth. After all, I need to have some semblance of control here.
As we reach our private villa, she swipes the key card and pushes the door open. I step in behind her, only to come to a cold, hard stop.
You have got to be shittin’ me.
This space is made for one thing and one thing only: fucking.
A fire burns low in the corner, throwing off a glow that’s probably meant to be romantic but screams seduction.
In the opposite corner, a jacuzzi the size of a small pool gleams beneath angled mirrors, ready to capture every move.
The real showstopper, though, is the bed.
It’s big enough for a king, draped in sheer white curtains that glow under a crystal chandelier.
And guess what’s above it? Another goddamn mirror.
Dead. That’s what I am. Fucking dead.
“This is a total nightmare,” Harlow mutters, sharing the same sentiment as she drags her suitcase further inside.
Of course, her version of this nightmare is vastly different from mine, but why waste a perfect opportunity?
“Nightmare feels a little dramatic, Goldilocks.” I drop my bag in the corner and sprawl across the bed like I own it. “This is more like a sex fantasy waiting to happen. Hell, they even gave us a mirror above this bad boy. Do you know the angles we could catch with this thing?”
Her cheeks flush the prettiest shade of pink before she masks it with a glare. “Keep it up, Masters, and you’ll be on the floor.”
Chuckling, I roll off the bed, smart enough to know how far to push.
“Hurry up and get dressed,” she says, flipping open her suitcase. “We don’t have much time.”
I dig into my bag, pulling out a dress shirt and pants, when her voice cuts in again.
“Which one?” She turns, two dresses draped over her arms like weapons, both lethal enough to make a man forget how to speak. “Green or black?”
It doesn’t matter, I’m screwed either way.
“Both are nice,” I say instead.
She rolls her eyes. “Nice isn’t helpful. I need to make a statement.” She hoists the dresses higher, daring me to try again. “Which one says ‘I’m happy for my sister, over Finch, and living my best life’?”
For a moment, I just stare at her, wondering how she can’t see what’s so obvious.
“The woman standing in front of me already says that.” I pause for a moment, letting that truth land hard. “You showed up, Harlow. That’s the statement. Nothing you put on is going to be louder than that.”
For once, she doesn’t fire back. Her expression softens, that armor slipping just enough to let me glimpse the girl beneath.
“You know, Slimer,” she murmurs, “sometimes you say things that make me not hate you so much.”
My lips twitch. “What can I say, it’s one of my many charms.”
She’s on the verge of a smile, before she reins it in, getting back to business. “Okay, but seriously…pick one.”
Releasing a breath, I look again, longer this time.
“Green,” I decide at last.
Her head tilts. “Why green?”
I shrug. “It suits you and doesn’t scream desperate, if that helps.”
Neither of them screams desperate, but I’m hoping the long one might not tempt me as much.
She nods, satisfied with that answer. “Green it is.”
As she drapes the black dress over her suitcase, I strip off my shirt.
She stiffens, her gaze catching on my chest, a flash of heat sparking in those pretty eyes before she buries it beneath a scowl. “You mind waiting until I’m out of the room?”
“Why? Getting turned on, Harlow?”
Her scoff wavers. “Please. Don’t flatter yourself.”
That shaky denial just begs to be tested.
Smirking, I hold her gaze and slide my belt free, the leather rasping through the buckle in one deliberate pull.
She meets the challenge head-on, chin tipping higher, eyebrow lifting—until the hiss of my zipper cuts through the silence.
Her armor cracks, gaze ripping from mine.
Gotcha, Goldilocks.
“God, you’re impossible,” she snaps, clutching her dress tighter before storming into the bathroom and slamming the door behind her.
I laugh under my breath, unable to resist.
This weekend might be fun after all.
Once I’m dressed, I drop onto the edge of the bed and scroll through my phone, waiting her out. Almost thirty minutes crawl by before the bathroom door finally opens.
I look up, ready to make some smartass remark about how long she took, but the second she steps out, the words vanish, air punching straight from my lungs.
The emerald-green silk clings like a sin, skimming every curve before it dares to let go. Her hair is sleek instead of wild, makeup smoked darker, turning those whiskey-colored eyes into weapons that hit their mark every damn time.
She isn’t just beautiful, she’s temptation spun into elegance, danger wrapped in grace. The kind of sight that could bring a man to his knees.
I’m already halfway there, but make no mistake, if I go down, I’m taking her with me.
Her weight shifts under my stare, eyes uncertain. “Too much?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. You look…nice.”
Understatement of the fucking century.
She glances down, second-guessing herself anyway. “Ugh, forget it. I’m changing.”
Before she can turn, I’m on my feet, catching her arm. “No, you’re not.”
Her gaze snaps to mine, wide and vulnerable.
“You look perfect, Harlow. Like a woman who is happy for her sister, long over Finchy Boy, and living her best life with her childhood nemesis.”
A ghost of a smile curves her lips, the kind that slips beneath my skin and stays there.
I offer my arm then, refusing to let her doubt herself any longer. “Ready to fake the perfect date?”
She hooks hers through mine, chin lifting with the confidence I’ve been waiting for. “Ready.”
A slow smirk tugs at my mouth.
Showtime.