Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(56)

“How are you causing this? Don’t you mean how did you end up in Vegas with yet another crazy woman?”

“You aren’t crazy, Skye. You’re real, and real doesn’t mean perfect. In fact, it’s always flawed. And look at me, baby. I’m being blackmailed. I’m pretty sure I come with about as much baggage as one man can come with. I’m taking crazy ex to a whole new level.

“Stay with me, Skye. Or go back to San Francisco and take me with you. Or don’t. It’s your choice, but just for the record, I vote for one of the options that include me. With you.”

“I didn’t want to leave,” I confess. “It was just that obligation thing hit a nerve.” I regret those words. I see a question in his eyes and quickly add, “Here. Let’s stay here.”

His eyes light up and I can see he is pleased. “Then I vote we order room service and eat in bed. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.” And it does, like everything this man says and does, while my past keeps trying to demonize him unfairly.

His cell phone rings, a muffled sound coming from the hallway. “I’m guessing my pants never made it to the bedroom.” He motions me forward. “The room service menu is on the coffee table.”

I push off the bed and before I know his intent, Jason’s in front of me, pulling me to him, his hand at the back of my head as he gives me a quick, hard kiss. “I’m glad you’re staying,” he says, before releasing me and heading into the hallway.

Inhaling with the impact of his kiss, I accept my complete, utter inability to resist him. Even more, there’s a bond forming between us, which I’m self-analytical enough to understand is the trigger for all of those broken, sharp edges of my past to jab their way to the surface. Being alone has been my safe place, since relationships have not been kind to me, in any way, shape, or form. But then, fear hasn’t been the kindest of players in this game of life either, as my elevator debacles certainly display quite well.

“Skye.”

I glance up to find Jason extending the menu, light brown hair curling at his nape and brow, the phone still at his ear, as he says, “That’s not going to happen,” to whoever he’s talking to.

Shaking off my thoughts, I hurry forward and accept the menu, while he scowls at whatever is being said to him, and yet still, his fingers snag mine. “No, Davie,” he snaps, leading me down the hallway, and adding, “I’m not coming downstairs to shoot with you.”

The hall ends and we enter a modern-looking living area with a towering ceiling, a window wrapping the half-moon-shaped room, an oval, tan leather bar in one corner, and a grand piano in the other. Our destination is a leather sectional that matches the bar, where we sit, and Jason seems to have had enough of his conversation. “It’s two o’clock in the morning. Yes, of course, I’ll be at the charity press op in the morning. I’m hanging up.”

He sets his phone on the table. “He’s just one more reason I won’t re-sign for another season of the show. Ratings are everything to him, which makes him look at the cards as a necessary evil, not the real priority of the players.”

“I heard that from Abel, when Davie was studying me like I was a science project. Abel seemed to think he was calculating ways I could boost ratings.”

His brow furrows. “Davie was staring at you?”

“During the news conference,” I confirm. “It was kind of strange, actually. I’m not talking a glance, either, Jason. I’m talking about him being across the room, with a bull’s-eye lock on me, and when I caught him, he didn’t so much as blink, let alone look away.”

“Davie’s a strange dude, but did he say anything to you? What interactions did you have with him?”

“Nothing more than a few lighthearted, joking words while we were with a group of people. He seemed nice then, but when he was staring at me there was something creepy about him. The more I talk about this, and think about it now, it was such a striking contrast to when I talked to him later. If Abel hadn’t seen him too, I could almost convince myself the man staring at me was a Davie look-alike.”

“Abel saw him staring at you?”

“Yes. He did.” I narrow my eyes on him. “This is bothering you. What are you thinking?”

He scrubs his jaw, the light stubble rasping against his palm. “That Davie and I are going to talk, before he sneakily turns a camera on you.”

“He can’t do that without my signing a contract, can he?”

“Not for the show. But he looks for ratings boosters in creative ways. For example, a reporter for a gossip rag could suddenly find us and create some kind of media scandal.” He grabs his phone. “I’m going to call him back. Can you order me a cheeseburger, well done, with fries? And get whatever you want.” He leans in and kisses me. “You’re going to need your energy before I let you sleep. The phone’s on the bar.”

He starts to move away and I grab his arm. “Don’t upset your producer over me.”

“My producer better think twice about upsetting me over you, or I’ll quit the show before my contract is over. I don’t need the money, and I damn sure don’t need the spotlight on you or me.” He kisses my temple. “Stop worrying. I’m going to the kitchen so I won’t talk over you.” He stands and walks around the couch, disappearing through a massive archway.