15. Chapter 15
Chapter fifteen
~DARCY~
The plan was to do one thing tonight—not have sex with my boss.
Sixty seconds after Declan’s invitation to come upstairs, I stand beside him in an elevator that's climbing toward his floor while my brain screams at me to press the emergency stop button and run.
The Mexican night outside is warm and close, humidity clinging to my skin even indoors. Through the glass elevator shaft I can see the hotel grounds below—the pool lit up in shades of blue. Beneath us, palm trees sway as couples walk hand in hand toward the beach.
Next to me, close enough to touch and kiss and fondle, is Declan Shaw.
My boss.
My accidental husband.
The man whose cologne is currently making my knees weak and my judgment questionable.
This is easily the worst idea I've had since signing that cenote waiver without reading it during Jessica’s wedding weekend.
Because I still don't know how Ricardo Dominguez and Alexander Webb connect to the Shaws. I still don't know what my father's poker buddies were doing in Declan's office. I still don't know if there's some deeper connection between my past and Declan's world I haven't uncovered.
And more than that—more dangerous than that—I'm terrified that the more time I spend with Declan, the harder I might—in the horror of all horrors—be falling for him.
The elevator dings.
The doors open, and Declan steps out first, with me trailing down a hallway of soft lighting, expensive carpet, and the faint scent of ocean.
He stops at a door near the end.
Room 1847.
He slides the key card; the lock clicks.
He steps aside, letting me enter first. His suite is enormous.
Wall-to-wall windows overlook the ocean. A sitting area with a couch and chairs. A king-size bed pulled straight from a magazine spread, muted ambient lighting giving the space a golden glow.
I go to the windows, because I need distance to slow my racing pulse.
"Nice view," I say.
"It is."
When I glance back, Declan isn’t looking at the ocean.
He’s looking at me.
"So," I say, turning to face him. "That drink you promised."
"Right." He moves to the minibar. "What would you like?"
"Something without alcohol. My stomach's still staging that rebellion."
"Mocktail it is." He pulls out mixers, starts combining things with large hands that work fast. "Cranberry, lime, soda water. Sound good?"
"Perfect."
He makes two—one for me, one for himself—and brings them over.
I take a sip. Holy hell. Tart and fizzy and exactly what I need.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." He’s still watching me; his green eyes shift under the amber lights.
"So. Work."
"Work?"
"We said we were going to talk about work."
“Did we?”
"Right. Work. The Tulum property. I was thinking about the vendor consolidation strategy, and—"
"Darcy."
"What?"
"We're not talking about work."
"We're not?"
"No." He sets his glass down on the side table. "We're standing in my hotel room at eleven thirty P.M., pretending we came up here to talk about vendor consolidation when we both know that's bullshit."
"I don’t think—"
"It is." He steps closer. "You don't want to talk about work any more than I do."
"Then what do I want to talk about?"
"You don't want to talk at all."
He's absolutely right.
And I hate how well he reads me.
"This is so so bad of us,” I say quietly.
“Darcy,” he murmurs, close enough that I can smell his cologne, "from where I'm standing, the only bad idea is pretending we don't want this."
"Declan—"
"Tell me you want to leave and I'll press the elevator button for you. Tell me this isn't what you want and I'll believe you." He reaches up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "But don't lie to me, Darcy. Not about this."
God, lying seems like the only viable option right now.
Because I know I should tell him to stop.
I should go back to my room, remember all the reasons crossing the line again with him is emotionally lethal—the secrets I'm keeping from my best friends, the possible connection my father has with the Shaws that I haven't figured out yet, the fact that I'm falling for my gorgeous, twice-my-age, burly, brooding boss and that terrifies me more than anything.
But when I open my mouth, that's not what comes out.
"I don't want to leave," I exhale.
"No?"
"No."
"What do you want?"
"I want—" I swallow. "I want you to kiss me."
He doesn't make me ask twice.