Page 40 of Room 810

Sawyer’s eyes teared up a little. “Thank you, that’s a great offer. I think I’ll take you up on that.”

Roland’s ears were still ringing, focusing on the wordhusband. Sawyer was married. Of course he was married. But the desk in front of him had blocked his view of Sawyer’s left hand. Why hadn’t he looked for a ring? Even if Sawyer was married, though, that didn’t entirely rule out the possibility of him lusting after Monsieur Holland, but there was no way Emerson would become entangled with a married man. He was too honorable for something like that.

The momentary relief was tempered with familiar frustration.

“Gentlemen,” Emily said, coming over to greet them. She was the front desk supervisor, and she was under strict instruction to pull out all the charm for these special guests. “If you would like to come with me, I’ll show you to your room. The honeymoon suite is really something special. There’s a deep whirlpool tub large enough for two.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, and while Emerson slapped a hand over his face in dismay, Toby was fully on board and was already dragging Gabriel by the hand toward the elevator.

“Did you hear that, Gabe?”

“Yes, I heard.” He seemed more than willing to follow along. “Sounds very… relaxing.”

As he watched them pile into the elevator, Roland felt Emerson’s presence at his side, setting his body on fire. He was so in tune with the alpha’s scent that he could find him in a pitch-black room. “The honeymoon suite was a nice touch,” Emerson said, their shoulders brushing. “In fact, all your suggestions were spot on.”

Roland shrugged and turned just enough to peek at his boss from the corner of his eye. “What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“Not so hopeless, surely.” There was something laced through his words, a certain optimistic tone.

The thought of Emerson and Sawyer together had filled Roland with dread, and he knew that you failed one hundred percent of the chances you didn’t take. There was no harm in asking… right? “Emerson—I mean, Monsieur Holland… Do you think maybe we could go for dinner sometime?” His eyes flitted up to Mr. Holland’s face in time to catch just a flicker of emotion, something light and joyful, pass over his expression.

The corners of his mouth lifted, his eyes tender. “I would lo—” But then his throat seemed to close up, cutting off whatever answer he’d been about to give. It was like he crumpled, caving in on himself, and the light in his eyes was snuffed out. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

“Right. Of course. My apologies.”

“I’m your boss, and other people might—”

“It’s fine,” Roland interrupted. “If you’ll excuse me, sir. There’s a customer approaching the desk. I have work to do.”

And even though he’d been shot down, with no room to misinterpret Monsieur Holland’s rejection, the tiny spark of hope remained.

One day… just maybe Emerson would be his.

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