Page 39 of Wrong Idea

“How did…?” I started to ask, hating the heat that inflamed my face.

“I brought you up here and cleaned you up and covered you in the robe after you threw up in my office.” My eyes shut and my head dropped.

When I opened them again, I stared at my hands. I’d found those cameras and started to think back. The key that fell from my key ring, how he knew I was at the bus stop after my shifts at the exact time, almost like he was waiting on me. Those things hadn’t just happened; he’d made them happen. Created opportunities to be around me. Had he copied my house key?Do you care?a voice in my head asked. One I quickly shook off.

“Thank you. I’ll get up and clean?—“

“No,” he cut me off, and I looked up at him. “I already handled it.”

“Please don’t tell me you called Bertie!” When I sat up a little too quickly, my head protested.

“Careful.” He leaned towards me, holding my shoulders. One of his large hands rose and stroked the side of my face. And like an idiot, I leaned into his touch. “You shouldn’t have made her clean that up. That’s so embarrassing!”

“I didn’t,” he answered without explaining any further.

“Or Stan.”

“He didn’t clean it up, either.” I frowned. “Don’t worry about it. It was taken care of.” Maybe Stan had hired someone new and forgot to tell me yesterday. What with everything that happened, it probably slipped his mind.

“Here.” He reached for a glass of water and handed it to me, and then two white pills. I stared at them in the palm of his hand, a hand that had been rubbing me down less than twenty-four hours ago.

“What’s this?” I asked suspiciously.

“Tylenol. For your headache,” he explained, and I took it. The cool water felt great with how dry my mouth was.

“I should go,” I whispered. I’d already made a fool of myself, showing up drunk and belligerent. I sat on the edge of the big luxurious bed that felt like a literal cloud. The mattress was the most luxurious thing I had ever slept on.

“Stay,” he said, leaning forward. My eyes dipped from his down to his lips.

“Carver,” I whispered.

“Car. That’s who I am to you.” And just like that, it snapped me out of my thoughts.

“No, that’s who I thought you were,” I whispered, pressing my lips together and trying to blink away the unexpected rush of emotions that swept over me.

“Max—“

“You’re my boss. You literally own the ski resort!” I pointed out, and he sighed.

“Fine, I’ll sign The Crown over to you, and you can be your own boss,” he said, as if it made sense to sign over a multi-million-dollar asset as easily as it was to let someone have a pair of your shoes. That snapped the tears away, and my brows bunched together.

“Are you crazy?!” I exclaimed. His hands took mine in his.

“About you? Yes. Absolutely. One hundred percent.”

“This is not funny, Car.”

“I’m not joking, Max.” He looked way too serious.

Seeing him in what he probably wore on a regular basis instead of the athleisure casual stuff I was used to seeing him in was jarring. He was still the man I had fallen in love with, or at least I hoped he was.

But he was also different. I breathed in and shook my head. “Why?” I asked, finally breaking down and trying to face whatever it was I thought we had and somehow make sense of what he had been up to.

“I fucked up,” he rasped.

“When?” I hated that I loved the way his hand stroked mine. “When you lied about being a masseuse or when you lied about who you were, or was it when you’ve been watching me without my permission with all those little cameras?”

“Max—“I stood up. I wasn’t sure what the point of this conversation was or if it even had one.

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