Page 42 of Heartbreaker

Fuck, she’s cute.

But I focus and nod in confirmation. “Yeah,” I say. “But there are two bedrooms. We’ll keep it strictly to music. I promise.”

Her expression tells me that she doesn’t buy this in the least.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t plan this, I swear.”

Gray eyes study mine for a long, tense moment before she sighs.

“Fine,” she mutters, pushing past me and bounding up the stairs to the cabin. “But there will absolutely benohanky-panky.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Jade

One cabin.

How do I get myself into these messes?

I should know better.

I don’t know if I believe it was a mistake—people like Royal don’t have assistants who make mistakes—but there are two bedrooms. And the lock on the door seems to work. Not that I’m afraid of him. Not physically anyway.

I look around the room, where I’ve unpacked my toiletries and pajamas and a few things I’ll need to be comfortable in the next couple of days. It’s beautiful. High-end rustic with large windows and warm furnishings.

In a way, it reminds me of my farmhouse in Tennessee. I’ve done all the renovations, updating and upgrading, making it a veritable paradise without losing the original charm. Yes, there are stainless steel appliances in the kitchen now—sorry, grandma, but that green 1970s look was unbearable—and granite countertops, along with a shower in my bathroom I could hold a party in.

I’ve made it mine and I miss it when I’m away, but being here reminds me of home.

Except, I’m not home and I have things to do.

With a sigh, I gather my courage and every drop of professionalism I can muster up, and head into the main room. It’s expansive, with two-story ceilings and a floor-to-ceiling fireplace that would be perfect to cuddle in front of.

Ugh.

Stop it, Jade.

There will be no cuddling. None. Zero. Zip. Nada.

I repeat it until I kinda sorta believe it.

Then I step into the living room, and my resolve melts almost as fast as my panties the night of the award show.

Because Royal is the kind of man any red-blooded woman would want to cuddle with.

And I’m sure he has. Many, many times.

The devil on my shoulder is a jerk, and I take a breath before pasting a fake smile on my face. “Hey. Is there food?”

“Sure.” He turns slowly, his eyes zeroing in on me like he’s undressing me.

Is that what he’s doing?

I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest and walk toward the kitchen.

“What do you feel like?” he asks, following me.

“Just a snack to tide me over until dinner.”

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