Page 11 of One Weekend in Quebec City

I manage a weak thank you, but my voice barely registers above a whisper. My cheeks burn, and I curse my fair skin and inability to hide my reactions. He probably thinks I’m a complete mess. A starstruck idiot. Which, professionally, I’m determined not to be.

Personally, is another story.

As we walk together to where the coffee service is laid out, conflicting thoughts are dancing around in my head. What am I doing? This is crazy. I’m here to do a job, not fall for my story’s subject. But God, he’s so attractive, so charming. And I can’t deny the chemistry between us.

I note how his suit hugs his broad shoulders, and his eyes sparkle with amusement and concern. But he’s a flirt, a billionaire. He’s used to getting whatever he wants. I refuse to be another notch on his bedpost. I have to stay professional and focused on my career and my goals.

I glance over at him. Yikes. I need to be strong to resist this attraction. But how can I when everything about him reels in like some fish caught on a line, making me dream of more?

We walk through the open doorway into a smaller, adjoining room where a long table draped in white linen holds an array of pastries, fruit, and an impressive coffee service. The air is filled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a welcome contrast to the boardroom’s slightly sterile, air-conditioned atmosphere. I head straight to the croissants and the berry compote. Unbeknownst to Spencer, I already sampled the offerings earlier, worried that if I didn’t get something into my stomach, my hunger would make itself known and interrupt the entire meeting.

Spencer gestures towards the coffee urn. “Help yourself. I know you big-city journalists need your caffeine.”

He isobviouslyreferencing my small-town residence in Kingston, but I don’t take it as a snide comment. There’s a teasing lilt to his voice, a hint of that playful arrogance I’d glimpsed last night. It should annoy and put me on guard, but it has the opposite effect. It makes me want to spar with him. To prove I’m not some naive small-town girl easily impressed by his wealth and charm. Although, it appears I am. It’s not his wealth; I could care less about his bank account. That charm of his, though… As they say,I’m apparently falling for that hook, line, and sinker.

“We small-town journalists need our coffee just as much as you big-city billionaires,”I retort, trying to inject a bit of playful defiance into my tone. “But we’re discerning. We prefer quality over quantity.”I reach for a delicate cup, avoiding his gaze, needing a moment to compose myself.

He chuckles a low, throaty sound that does naughty things to my insides. “Touché, Ms. Bailey. Touché.”Spencer pours himself a cup, the dark liquid swirling in the white porcelain. The cup looks small in his large hand. “Well, I assure you, the coffee here is of the highest quality. The hotel prides itself on it. So, no excuses not to have your fill, even if it might keep you up all night instead of dreaming of who knows what.”

The corner of his mouth twitches upward into an I-know-what-you’re-thinking type of smile, making my stomach twist witha combination ofexcitement and nerves.

I wish I could come up with a witty or snarky comment in return. Or, better yet, turn the topic back to work. Instead, I meet his eyes and stare back, unflinching, challenging his expression silently and without reservation. It’s not easy, but Imanage tomaintain the look through pure will.

His right brow slowly arches, making me pause to recognize that his body signaled me again.

The man doesn’t give up, whether intentional or not.

“So,”I say, turningso I canlook directly at him. “The model you choose for the magazine cover. Does that mean he or she gets a trip back to Quebec City?”

He arches his eyebrow in response to my little outburst, and a faint, suggestive smile spreads. He is not going to back down. It’s both impressive and terrifying, all in the same motion.

“We’ve already narrowed the selection, and the majority will appear within our publication regardless. But yes. A winter story in Quebec City means we’ll need additional content to create the full story and other supplemental articles. I intend to dedicate the entire edition to the holidays—food, décor, family traditions, the like. Today we make our preliminary choices about the cover model specifically and maybe locations. And then my team will bring those chosen back for a full photo shoot.”

“So today are just preliminary shots? I mean I guess since it’s summer, and we don’t have snow year-round regardless of what some non-Canadians may think.”

He laughs, and I melt some more. “Yes, we will take seasonal photos when it’s time, but we can also use fake snow if necessary.”

“Okay then. So, when will you have time formetoday?”

“As in, when will the interview happen?”

“Yes.”

“Whenever, andwherever, you’d like.”The emphasis on that one word makes it even moreobviousthis is a dance. A game. A chess match.

I suck at chess.

My mouth wants to ask the questions, but my mind is spinning. Instead, because I am here as a journalist and not as a visitor, vacationer, or date, I turn back to the coffee and stare into my cup as I lift it to my lips and take a small sip to avoid staring deep into his eyes. I feel like a kitten stalking up to an experienced lion, ready to pounce but knowing I can quickly be tamed.

Or stepped on.

We’re outside the ballroom where the photo shoot will take place, so the air smells like fresh espresso and a hint of perfume from the models waiting nearby. Inside, the camera crew is setting up. Out here, everyone is hanging out, relaxing for a few moments beforegetting backto work.

Spencer standsnext tome, his posture easy, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze as he scans the hallway. Even at rest, he’s always working. “What do you think of the models so far? Do any of them stand out to you?”

His question surprises me. I clear my throat, trying to gather my thoughts. “Well, I think they all have unique qualities, but to be perfectly honest, I’m still curious about the criteria for choosing the cover model.”

Spencer raises an eyebrow, a playful smirk on his lips. “The obvious being their physical beauty?”

---