Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(19)

“You aren’t alone in a strange city anymore.”

I should remind him we barely know each other. Tell him I am not his responsibility. But I don’t. I let myself live in the fairy-tale moment. “Thank you.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and for some reason I think he does not approve of my reply. His hand releases mine and he backs away, almost as if he’s just pulled down a curtain. “We should go.”

I slide into the vehicle and, without hesitation, he shuts me inside, with him on the outside.

*

There is a subtle band of tension humming around us as we exit our vehicles in the private tenants’ area and head to the elevator. Once we are inside the lift, Damion gives me an awkward tour-guide recounting of the amenities I have at my disposal, and I want to scream at him to stop halfway through his speech.

Nerves flutter in my stomach the instant we arrive on my floor, and once we are at my door, he hands me a key, and I do not miss the way he avoids touching me. I wonder if he sees the irony of telling me I am not alone and now acting as if I am the plague.

I swipe the card in the door and hold it open as he maneuvers my bags inside. He’s back in the hall before I can blink, leaning a hand on the doorjamb by my head, shadows swimming in his eyes. “I’m not going to roll your bags inside or I won’t leave.”

The tormented confession punches me in the gut and I reach for his face, only to have him capture my wrist. “I’ve spent hours on end, it feels like, wanting you today,” he confesses. “I almost had you, too. I’m on the edge, and if you touch me, I will not do what’s right tonight and walk away.” He motions to his left. “I’m in the suite at the very end of the hall if you need anything—30011 by phone.”

We crossed lines, I’d told him. I’m man enough to fix it, he’d said. He’s giving me what I asked for. Why does that bother me?

He drops my wrist, setting me free. “Good night, Kali.” And then he turns and walks down the hall. Holding my breath, my nails curled into my palms, I watch him go. I don’t move. When he’s at his door, he pauses, and I will him to turn and come back. He doesn’t. We both go into our rooms alone.





Part Seven


The contract…


I lie in bed, aching to be with Damion and thinking of every instant before and after our being here in this room. I replay every touch, every comment, every look. But of all the things my mind could fixate on, it does not go to those delicious and wonderful erotic moments but to his generic claim that I’m running from something. I am not running. I am choosing to be happy. I have decided that moving away from a veil casting unhappiness is smart.

Unable to stop myself, I grab my cell from the nightstand and type: I am not running from anything.

And obviously you aren’t sleeping, either.

I glance at the time on the digital clock by the bed—1:00 A.M. Sorry. Did I wake you?

No. I wasn’t asleep, either.

Why? I type before I can stop myself.

I have a lot on my mind.

Me, too.

Well, I hear your boss is a bear when he doesn’t sleep.

I hear your new secretary is, too. Poor everyone else

Yes. Poor everyone else. Good night, Kali.

Good night, Damion.

I stare at my phone, thinking of how short our exchange was. He didn’t welcome conversation. He’s trying to do what is right. He’s trying get us back to where we started. Why am I wishing we were back where we stopped? Because he’s gorgeous and you’re human, I remind myself. But you also are not stupid. You need this job, not another orgasm.

*

I wake on my back to a beam of bright sunlight, my cell cradled to my chest, and trying to process why the eighties’ tune “Jesse’s Girl” is playing in my head. I blink and realize it’s the alarm and roll over to turn it off. I do not let myself cave to the temptation of reading the text exchange with Damion again. I can’t overanalyze it or I will make myself crazy. I keep my mind on the job and I get more excited by the minute. I am not just a secretary. I’m working directly with the CEO of a massive casino operation. There is no telling what I will learn and do in this role. If I end up in journalism later, I will be a better reporter for this, too. If I don’t, it’s because this job will lead me to better places.

I’m slipping on a pair of black strappy shoes to complement my pale-blue skirt and jacket when the room phone rings. Nerves flutter in my stomach at the certainty that it will be Damion—or, rather, “Mr. Ward”—and I grab the receiver with the hope that this call will usher us into a good day.

“Morning, Kali! This is Maggie.” Her perky-sounding voice fills me with disappointment.

“Morning.”

“Can you stop by my office before you start to work?”

Unease rolls through me, though she seems so pleasant I can’t believe anything is wrong. In fact, it’s logical that I need paperwork to stay here. “Oh, yes, sure.”

A few minutes later, I walk in to HR to have the receptionist greet me with a friendly smile instead of a cold shoulder. Apparently—and uncomfortably so—I’m now a member of the Mr. Ward victim club, without even joining. I don’t like the idea, and the more I think about Natalie, the more wrong her story feels, but I plan on asking about her.