Page 15 of Some Like It Hott

Clomping?Fucker!

“And who are you, the hotel guest inspection team? They send you from room to room, making sure the guests aren’t breaking any weird unwritten rules, like,For God’s sake, man, whatever you do, no dancing on the desk!”

“I would think that would be self-evident without an actual written rule,” he says darkly. He’s backing up now, still scowling, but the suitcase wheel catches, and the case falls over. Something small and metallic tumbles out of his hand and hits the floor.

Reflexively, I bend and pick it up. Cuff link. The one missing from his dangling shirt sleeve. It’s heavy. Expensive—onyx and probably platinum.

I drop the cuff link back into his palm.

His hand is big, the fingers long and elegant. He closes it around the plain onyx stud, then, with a practiced motion, shoots the cufflink home.

I imagine his internal monologue is something like,Whew! Safe!

“Your tie,” I mock. “You need to tighten that up, too.” I reach for the knot at his throat.

His eyes flash to mine, pre-storm dark, and I freeze as his pupils flare, darker, his gaze pinning me in place?—

There’s a knock at the door.

He jerks away and straightens to his full height.

“Put your shirt on.” His voice is rough and commanding.

My mouth is so dry I can barely crack out words. “Um, what?”

He strides across the room, grabs my tunic and pushes it into my hands, scowling. His whole face is a thundercloud, his jaw set, a muscle ticking at the corner. “Just because I’m a good guy doesn’t mean everyone who knocks at that door is.”

Whether he’s a good guy or not is debatable, but I take his point and pull the tunic over my head.

“There. You happy?”

If anything, his scowl deepens. “Not in the slightest.”

Then he grabs the handle of his suitcase, tugs it toward the door, and launches himself out past the startled room service guy.

7

Preston

The wheel of my suitcase catches on the carpet three more times before I make it to the elevator and bang the down button. So much for luxury brands.

The door glides open. I practically leap inside, exhaling heavily as the door slides shut.

What. The. Fuck. Was. That?

Natalie Archer, topless: pale, bare skin, gorgeous curves poured into a skimpy black lace bra and form-fitting leggings. Spike-heeled pink shoes I instantly wanted digging into my flanks.

Plus a no-fucks-to-give attitude that shouldn’t have made the ensemble even sexier but somehow did.

And I was a certified dick about the situation. Not for the first time today.

Finding my room already occupied was the last straw on a miserable day. It was like the universe knew my life was a temporary shit show and was chiming in with helpful additions. Even before the showdown in Hanna’s office, my jet sat on the runway for more than two hours while the best mechanics money can buy wrestled with the landing gear. The state-of-the-art airplane toilets got clogged, and the premium on-board fridge turned out to have died (no food). My driver didn’t show up in Bend, and the high-priced car service flailed like amateurs until I gave up and rented the best thing I could find at the tiny airport.

You could call an Uber,Franklin informed me while I waited for the rental company to produce my car, cursing expensive things that don’t do what you’ve paid a fortune for them to do.

I don’t have the app.

Download it.

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