Page 7 of Messy Match

“Great.” I draw out the word and level him with a look, trying to stay on the offensive. “Just try to keep it down when you invite Samantha up. Some of us need our beauty sleep.”

His eyes darken, but before he can respond, I push open my door. The room is gorgeous, rustic yet well-appointed, with a view like a postcard. Except, right now, I can’t enjoy it because there, set into the wall like some sick cosmic joke, is a connecting door.

Our rooms have an adjoining door.

My stomach does a slow somersault as I realize Jake must be discovering the same thing on his side. Sure enough, his low chuckle drifts through the not-nearly-thick-enough wall between us.

“Hey, Harris,” he calls out, his voice closer than it should be. “If you need anything, I’m right here. Every night.”

I press my forehead against the cool wood of the door, cursing under my breath at the smug tone and the way he echoes Samantha’s offer, as if to rub in the fact he’s basically man candy. “That door stays locked, Maddingly.”

“Wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise.” His casual tone holds a hint of challenge that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Though, I suppose if you ever need rescuing…”

“I can survive a luxury resort without your heroics, remember?”

“I don’t doubt it.” The words are soft, almost too quiet to hear, but they send a shiver down my spine.

Instead of responding, I head into the bathroom and crank up the shower as hot as it will go, hoping the steam will clear my head. It’s only when I spot my reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I realize I’m still wearing Jake’s jacket, that I do a doubletake. I should march right over and return it. But the smirk he’d wear if I brought it back now, along with another comment about how I could have just knocked on the connecting door, would be unbearable. Instead, I slip it off and toss it on the bed. I can give it back to him later.

Chapter five

Jake

Thehotelbarjustoff the lobby is everything you’d expect at a luxury mountain resort, all gleaming wood and polished leather. It also boasts a stock of infused vodkas that would put any bar back in the city to shame.

“So how’d the drive go?” Brock asks, smirking over his Wildwood Brewing IPA at a standing table as we wait for Charlotte to arrive, so we can be seated for dinner. “You two manage not to kill each other?”

My thumb brushes the cool condensation of my pint glass as thin trails of carbonation in my pilsner rise. Brock’s question drags my mind back from upstairs, where the adjoining door between our rooms might as well be a portal to another universe. Because an alternate reality is the only way I’m ever getting another chance with the woman on the other side. The one whose every sound, every movement from her room I couldn’t help but hear. The running water was pure torture. And the way the steam crept under the door, carrying hints of her shampoo?Let’s just say my shower was as cold as ice and didn’t help my erection one bit.

“Actually, Charlotte and I have come to an agreement.”

“An agreement?” Libby’s eyebrows shoot up. “You mean you two actually found common ground? Quick, someone check if hell froze over.”

“More like a temporary ceasefire.” I watch Brock’s reaction carefully. My best friend might trust me with his life in a burning building, but when it comes to his little sister, the protective big brother act never fully drops. And given my reputation with women, I can’t exactly blame him.

“Well, that’s…unexpected.” Libby exchanges a meaningful look with Brock. His eyebrows pinch.

“Maybe, we should order a bottle of champagne.” Brock’s uncertain tone indicates he can't quite decipher what his soon-to-be wife is trying to communicate. Either that or he’s going for distraction.

“To celebrate the fact our wedding party might not implode after all?” Libby asks, with a relaxed laugh. But then she shakes her head. “Actually, we can’t do champagne. Charlotte’s on her way down, and she doesn’t drink the stuff.”

“Since when?” The question slips out before I can help it, but I wonder if Libby’s confused. Charlotte certainly drank champagne that New Year’s Eve night we met. I can picture her perfectly—barely there, sexy-as-hell little black dress, crystal flute in hand, bubbles catching the flashing light as she threw back her head, laughing at something one of her girlfriends said. Before everything went sideways.

Libby eyes me curiously. “Since I’ve known her. We had bottle service at the bachelorette party and mimosas at the shower brunch. Charlotte declined both times, saying she didn’t like champagne, but come to think of it, she never mentioned why.”

Something twists in my gut. The change of preference can’t be a coincidence, but I shut down that train of thought immediately. Surely, Charlotte’s drink choices have nothing to do with me. She probably just decided one day that she didn’t drink champagne. Just like the way, within minutes on New Year’s Eve, she decided I wasn’t the kind of man she wanted after we’d spent an hour on the dance floor, getting hotter and sweatier than I did with half the women I’d slept with that year.

But before I come up with a response to Libby’s comment, a bright movement by the entrance catches my eye. And just like that, my throat goes dry.

Charlotte approaches the host stand, wearing a sunset-orange dress that hugs her figure, the fabric swirling with each graceful movement. Her dark hair falls in waves around her shoulders, drawing attention to how one is completely bare while a delicate strap adorns the other. The way the warm light from the bar catches the curve of her collarbone has me gripping my pint glass a little tighter.

As she makes her way toward us, dress swishing around her legs, I feel Brock eyeing me curiously, but I keep my expression carefully neutral. Surely, I’ll deserve a medal of some sort for surviving this damn ceasefire while she’s dressed to kill.

I catch a bearded guy at the bar watching Charlotte as she approaches, completely oblivious to how her arrival has drawn the attention of nearly every eye in the room. My heartrate ticks up because that’s the thing about Charlotte. She has no idea the effect she has on men. Especially on me.

“Look who finally graced us with her presence,” Brock calls out, checking his watch with exaggerated movements.

Charlotte promptly ignores her brother and greets Libby with a tight hug.

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