Page 7 of Faking With Mr. Steele

“Ok, Maggie, do a wellness check on everyone,” Mr. Steele instructs. “Make sure we don’t have any emergencies that need off the mountain immediately. We’re ok on supplies to be holed up here for a few days. Let the guests due to checkout know they won’t be leaving today.”

I trail behind listening as he doles out instructions to call the sheriff and ask for a timeframe on when the roads will be operational. I’m supposed to be at my mom’s at five, so this isn’t going to work for me.

“I won’t be able to stay,” I say, realizing I don’t really have the money to book a cabin for another night.

“Non-negotiable,” he tells me. “Maggie, re-book Miss Walters in her cabin, on us, until the roads are open.”

“Thank you.” I’d love to fight his generosity, but I can’t afford it right now. Plus, I can see this is a battle I’m not going to win. I excuse myself and head back into the conference room to grab my things.

When I turn to leave, Graham leans against the door frame. “I’m sorry we can’t finish your presentation.”

I wave him off, thankful he didn’t bring up our fuckfest. “It’s ok, Mr. Steele.”

“Graham.”

Should it feel weird calling the man I had sex with last night by his first name? “Thank you, Gra- Mr. Steele.”

He leans closer. “I think after last night you can call me by my first name now.”

Avoiding his mention of our tryst, I reach in my bag for a sample of my soap. “Just do me a favor.” I step closer, holding it out. “Try this tonight when you take a shower.”

The left corner of his lips lift into a sexy smirk, as his fingers curl around mine, silently tempting me to join him in the shower for a two-night stand. Even though I’d really love to lather him up and lick his skin dry, I step away.

Fate sucks. Last night it was fine when I didn’t know he’s the man who holds one of the largest accounts I could possibly ever acquire. Now I do. This would be huge for my company—my soapany—so I tamp down my overwhelming desire to soap up his muscular body and think about my future instead of my vagina.

“Thank you for your time.”

“Right.” His eyes darken, growing narrow as he stares right through me. “I’ll let you know what we decide.”

“Have a good day, Graham.” I brush past him and curse fate for screwing me. Literally.

Chapter 3

Graham

If Santa were real, I know exactly what I’d ask for—Zoe’s sweet pussy. Unfortunately, there’s no Santa, and it looks like I won’t be getting to enjoy her anytime soon. It’s the cardinal rule...no mixing business with pleasure. I had no idea the beautiful jaded elf was a potential supplier. Fucking figures. I can’t really confirm that would’ve stopped me had I known, but judging by the look on her face when I walked in, she had no idea either and it certainly would’ve stopped her. I should be making sure everyone in this resort is safe, not replaying sex with Zoe over and over in my head.

I came up here to get away, not meet someone new. Try telling that to my dick, though.

After changing into a black sweater and jeans, I shrug into my coat and step from the warmth of my cabin, back into the frigid, ice-cold air. Mounds of freshly plowed snow line the walkwaysconnecting the cabins to the main building as I wander around the property.

A pink knit hat in the parking lot, covering long dark tresses, catches my eye. Zoe, her previous sexy as sin black business skirt and heels now replaced with jeans and calf-high boots, stands by a black Camry, loading her suitcase into the trunk.

“What are you doing?” I call out, making my way over to her car.

“Leaving.” She smiles and brushes past me, throwing her purse into the front seat.

I grab the door. “You can’t leave. I thought I made that clear?”

“Well I thought about it,” she grabs the door, and stares into my eyes with something akin to panic, “and, I have to get off this mountain.”

I smile at her dramatics. “Well, that’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible if you try hard enough.” She jerks the car door from my hold.

“You sound like a motivational poster.” She doesn’t think that’s funny. “I prefer the demotivational ones, they’re more accurate.”

She scrunches her face at me. “Demotivational?”

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