Page 20 of The Wrong Promise

“And I don’t need to see your bed,” I shoot back. “I want to go to mine. It’s been a long week.”

He nods slowly, his dark eyes watching me carefully. “You have the pick of the other four bedrooms. The pool and gym can wait for tomorrow.”

“I haven’t made a decision.” I head the opposite way of Jobe.

He hasn’t wonyet.Then I catch sight of the skyline view and lose my breath at the beauty. If the mattress is even half as soft as this carpet, I’m done for.

And the Italian food was like heaven in my mouth.

Oh, God.

He’s totally won.

Unfortunately,it was the best sleep I’ve had in a month. The perfectly soft mattress and divine sheets had me dreaming of another life.

I roll over and check the time on my phone. It’s after seven, and the battery is almost dead. A remote control is on the bedside table. Curious, I press the button, and the drapes slide back, allowing sunlight to shine into my room.

Shards of light hit the mirrors on the wall and dresser, causing pretty reflections to dance around the room. It feelsmagical compared to my small hotel room. I push up and fluff the pillows behind me, taking in the direct view of the Thames River and the bridge.

Could I live here?

It’s hard not to imagine a new life here. Walking along the Thames, meandering around Kensington Gardens, dining at the beautiful restaurants. Then I remember the deal.

I live here rent-free if I agree to be his fake girlfriend whenhe has dinner meetings with Sir James. He mentioned the dinners are held once a month when Jobe is in London. The rest of the time is mine to live here and do as I please.

It’s appealing, yet equally scary when I think about the dinner dates with London’s high society businessman. I don’t have the skills to be the woman he wants me to be.

Suddenly, I’m distracted by the aroma of bacon and eggs wafting into my room.

Is it coming from here or outside?

My windows are shut.

Is Jobe really cooking?

I jump up and eyeball my dress from last night. There’s something about putting on the same dress from the night before that makes me reckless. I open the wardrobe, and a white bathrobe hangs on a hook. I swear it’s like being in a five-star hotel. The fabric is every bit as soft as it appears as I tie the band and head out to face the grumpiest man on the planet.

Before I have one foot in the kitchen, I freeze.

Jobe is shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans and barefoot.

I haveneverseen him like this.

I definitely haven’t seen his naked torso in daylight. Part of the cabinetry conceals my presence, and I take a moment to watch him reach up into a cupboard. His shouldermuscles are contracting, his abs taut, and even from here, I can count the definition between each muscle in a neat line from his chest to his…

I gasp, seeing a spray of dark hair peeking out from the band of his jeans since the top two buttons are undone.

He turns. “Morning, Zara. I take it you slept well.” His smooth voice wraps around me like liquid caffeine waking me the fuck up.

Did he have someone stay over? God, part of me hopes so because he can’t look this sexyall the timefor no reason. But if I’m going to stay here, I don’t want to see his just-fucked face. I don’t want to be staring at his tanned, ripped body or clothes that expose a raw man all the time. It’s not something I can handle. We are not that close, nor do I want to be. Hell, we aren’t even friends.

I clear my throat. “I slept okay.”

He stops flipping bacon in the pan and smirks.

“What?”

“Going by your hairstyle, I’d wager you slept exceptionally well.”

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