Page 32 of Hot Holiday Fling

Hunt felt a wave of remorse, a tide of humiliation breaking over his head, but he couldn’t apologize.

“Well, all I wanted to do tonight was go with Kate to a gallery in Greenwich Village because one of my favorite artists is having a one-night exhibition. But because you needed these presents wrapped as soon as possible, I came over here after I finished work—my day was also tough, thank you very much!—to get it done.”

Fair point.

“Did you or did you not tell me to come over at any time, that Glen would let me in?” Adie asked, her voice slicing through him.

He had. And maybe that was what Glen had been trying to tell him... He should’ve listened and he could’ve ignored this ugly scene.

“I’ve been here for four sodding hours. I have paper cuts and a backache. I put on some music because I was bored, had a glass of whiskey to take the edge off the fact that one of my new clients thought it was okay to ask me to organize her a boy toy for some extramarital entertainment when she reaches St. Bart’s. After explaining to her that I am not a pimp, I then spent the next three hours wrapping these presents, thinking that you’d never, not in a million years, begrudge me a glass from the open bottle of wine in your fridge, while I debated what pizza to order!” She hadn’t lifted the volume of her voice at all but he could tell her anger and temper levels were rising fast.

Zipping up her other boot, she picked up her oversized scarf and wound it around her neck. Slinging her tote bag over her shoulder, she stomped into the hall and looked around in frustration.

“Where’s the damned button to summon the lift?”

Lift? Right, that was what the English called an elevator. Before his brain could catch up and form his answer to her question, Adie was crossing the carpet toward him to snatch the remote out of his hand. Scanning the buttons, she saw the icon for the elevator and jabbed it, throwing the remote onto the sofa when she was done.

He’d messed up. Badly. God, how could he salvage this situation? “Adie—”

Hunt followed her into the hall and walked straight into the elevator, its doors open. “Don’t you dare talk to me right now, Sheridan, I’m seriously cross at you and I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.”

Hunt placed his hand on the door to keep it from closing. “Like what?”

“That you’re selfish and rude and unappreciative. And though you are hotter than a trip around the sun, right now you are being a dick.”

She was right, but he didn’t know how to apologize or explain. That wasn’t something he did. The only word he managed to form now was her name so he said it again. He wanted to tell her not to go, to pull her out of the richly decorated elevator and take her to bed. He wanted to lose himself in her, for her to lose herself in him.

“Back off, Sheridan!” Adie flicked his hand with her finger and because she caught him by surprise, he lifted his hand off the door and it immediately slid closed. Adie’s furious and hurt face disappeared. Hunt rubbed the lower half of his face before linking his hands behind his head and cursing.

He’d thought he wanted to be alone, but he was wrong.

So wrong.

Adie, who’d been staying at Kate’s Chelsea apartment, was ridiculously grateful Kate was in Boston, reconnecting with an old college friend. She’d left on the three o’clock flight and intended to catch the red-eye home. Or, as she’d informed Adie, if said friend had retained his college good looks, she might not be returning home at all.

Adie hoped for the latter, because she really, really needed to shore up her defenses and reassert her mind’s control over her heart.

She paced Kate’s lounge in men’s style pajamas, a glass of red wine in her hand, conscious of her bruised heart banging away in her chest.

Hunt shouldn’t have the power to hurt her, in any way. He was her client, a gateway to picking up more business in this closed-off, cliquey world. And she had the proof of that. Since she’d started working for Hunt, she’d had many inquiries from Manhattan A-listers for her concierge services. People she’d normally have to spend months, if not years, courting, were coming to her because Hunt had tossed some business her way.

He was herclient...

But—ack!—he was more than that.

She’d genuinely started to believe that, despite the sexual tension between them, they’d become friends. She’d stupidly thought he not only wanted her, but he also liked her and respected her. His behavior tonight cast that in doubt.

She hadn’t been friends with a man for a long time so she couldn’t be sure of the whole man/woman friendship dynamic. But Hunt had told her a little about his life with Miss Mae, had opened up about his past. They’d had fun buying the kids’ toys—although she frequently had to drag him away from the tech stuff—and she’d thoroughly enjoyed his company.

Judging by his ready laughter and relaxed attitude, she thought he’d enjoyed hers, as well.

That was why his actions tonight had been such a slap in the face. Especially when she’d been giving up her personal time to help him.

And, let’s be honest here, the out-of-the-blue attack reminded her of her childhood, of being her mother’s verbal punching bag, for being blamed for stuff that wasn’t her fault. In her head, she heard her mom accusing Adie of ruining her marriage, telling her daughter that it was her fault her dad spent time with his mistresses and that carrying a baby ruined her mother’s body.

Adie took a large sip of her wine and rested the glass bowl against her forehead. Was she mad at Hunt or was she mad at her mother?

Oh, she was always mad at Vivien, Baroness of Strathhope, but she was also really angry with Hunt.

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