Page 27 of Some Like It Hott

Instead, I answer the question. “I’m trying to get a deal inked at work, and it’s a tricky one. Tense.”

I’m not sure why I’m telling her any of this, but something about being alone in this quiet space has loosened tight knots in my throat and chest.

“That sucks,” she says, and when I risk a glance at her, her expression is softer than I was expecting. “Is it a big deal? Like, important?” Her eyes rake over my face, curious.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Maybe the most important thing I’ve ever done. The higher up you get in investment banking, the fewer career paths are open, and at the level I’m at, only a few people get to be managing director. I’m up for it, and so’s another guy at work. Basically, which of us gets it comes down to which of us inks a deal first, and—well, the clock’s ticking.”

Her expression gets even softer. “And you’re stuck here. With the will thing.”

“And I’m stuck here,” I agree.

She bites her lip, looking thoughtful. “That kind of sucks. And—” She hesitates. “Makes you make a lot more sense. Why you wouldn’t want to work with me—because you think I’ll slow you down. Why you’re so brusque. Focused,” she says. “Obsessed with efficiency.”

They’re not soft words. Or kind words. But they’re not “grumpy asshole,” either.

I guess neither of us hates the other.

There’s a knock at the door.

Natalie starts, like she’s forgotten where we are. “We need a couple more minutes,” she calls.

“No rush,” Brianna calls back.

Natalie looks at me. “Turn around,” she orders. And she starts to lift her shirt.

Instinctively I turn—not because I don’t want to see, but because I do, and I’m afraid of what will happen if I let myself.

I can hear fabric swishing over skin. The sound of clothes dropping onto the floor. Theshhhas she settles herself against the table and as she pulls the top sheet over herself.

It’s been a long time since I had a massage. I would like one.

I sigh. “Don’t look,” I say.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Hott.” She snickers. “God, that last name. The jokes write themselves.”

“And there’s not a new one under the sun,” I say, laying my suit jacket over the chair. Stepping out of my shoes, pushing off my socks. Unbuckling my belt and slipping it out of the loops. My pants zipper sounds ridiculously loud in the quiet room.

I lie down on the table, wondering how I’m going to survive knowing that someone is touching Natalie’s bare skin.

There’s a quiet knock and Brianna and Amelia reenter, bustling around, adjusting the bolsters under our feet, the sheets over our backs, the headrests. They murmur quietly to each other. I hear the snick of the massage lotion pump and the squelch of the lotion on hands.

In a moment, I will hear the sound of that lotion brushing over Natalie’s naked body in long, smooth strokes. The quiet hitch of pleasure in her breathing.

Something short-circuits in my brain.

I can’t do this.

There’s another knock at the door.

“Massage in progress,” Brianna says over my back, in a low, unflustered voice.

The door opens a crack. “It’s urgent,” a voice says.

I recognize it as the receptionist’s.

“Hang on a moment,” Brianna says. “I’m so sorry.”

There’s a flurry of whispering at the door and then a flurry of murmuring between Brianna and Amelia, and then:

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