Heating Up the Holidays 3-Story Bundle(32)

Still naked from the night before, we are in no hurry to abandon the bed, talking about everything from the casino, to my mother, to the politics of doing business in Vegas. But I don’t miss how he dodges the subject of his mother and his youth, and I wonder if this is the source of his bruises.

It’s nearly ten when we order room service. He tugs on pajama bottoms and a T-shirt and looks as gorgeously male as he does in a suit and tie. Clinging to the intimacy between us and without any clothes except my dress at his place, I grab his shirt from the night before and pull it on.

Despite Damion’s insistence that I throw on his robe and stay in the room when the food arrives, I hide in the massive, sparkling white-tiled bathroom of his fancy suite, which makes mine look like an economy spot. I just don’t understand how he seems to want to announce our relationship to the world at all costs. And there will be costs.

Once we’re alone again, we settle at the wooden table where our breakfast has been laid out, and I press him to understand. “Why aren’t you more worried about people finding out about us?”

He fills our cups with coffee. “I’ve found that what is hidden becomes gossip fodder and poison. We’re both professionals. We will still act like it at work, but we also both live here. We can’t hide all the time. And we will be caught if we do.”

“So you want to tell the world?”

“Yes. I’m not saying make an announcement, but if they ask, the answer is, yes, we are together.”

“What about our jobs?”

“I filed a report with the board with your letter.” My jaw drops. “You did what?”

He takes my hand. “I covered my ass and yours. I’m committed to finding out where this will go and what we can be. We can’t do that by hiding it while we try to work and live together.”

My heart skips a beat. “Live together?”

“We work too much and too long. I’m keeping you with me in our private time as much as you’ll let me have you.”

You aren’t alone, he’d said to me at one point. And for the first time in a very long time, I think he’s right. I lean forward and press my lips to his. He wraps his arm around me and stands up, taking me with him.

Back to bed.

*

An hour later, I have returned to my room to shower and change and pack some things to stay with Damion for the rest of the weekend. I escaped long enough to dress in black jeans, a red tank top, and red Keds tennis shoes. Inspecting myself in the mirror—my long blond hair flat-ironed and shiny, my makeup present but not evident—I am satisfied I look casual and comfortable, not too dressy and not too drab.

I return to Damion’s room and, using the key he’s given me, enter to find him in dark-blue jeans, a blue polo, and deck shoes. On Damion, this translates to one of those Ralph Lauren Polo ads that make you want to lick the paper. He is really too good-looking for my sanity.

A few minutes later we step onto the elevator, deep in conversation, both laughing about my mother’s efforts to turn me into a cook and my many horrible failed attempts to please her. “Good thing we both like room service,” he jokes, and pulls me close.

At the same moment another couple sneaks onto the car, just before the doors shut.

I stiffen instantly, hoping the man and woman aren’t part of the very large staff. “Stop acting like we’re doing something wrong,” Damion chides when they get off on the next floor.

“I can’t help it.”

“Baby, I’m not trying to be arrogant, but I’m damn good at my job. The people who matter know it, and they want to please me because I please them. Profits talk and I deliver.” The doors open and he laces his fingers with mine. “Stop worrying, or I might have to tie you to my bed and torment you as punishment.”

“If that’s motivation to stop worrying, it’s not working.”

“How about I won’t tie you to my bed and torment you if you keep worrying.”

I perk up. “Much better.”

Once we’re in the parking garage, Damion holds the passenger door of his BMW for me. “We should talk about your car.”

I hesitate before I get in. “I have money set aside. I need to go buy one.”

“We’ll go this afternoon.”

“Oh, no. I’m going alone.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I have a Ford Escort budget, not a BMW budget.”

“Exactly why I need to go with you.”

“No.” I get into the car and he shuts me inside.

“No?” he asks, sliding into the driver’s seat.

“No. In fact, I think I’ll turn my rental in and wait on buying a car I’ll probably never drive. I can buy one when I need one.”

“We’ll talk about it.”

“No. We won’t talk about it.”

“We’ll talk about it.”

“Ask me again in six months.”

He cuts me an incredulous look. “Six months? This is Vegas. Six months is a lifetime to me. Two weeks.”

“Three months.”

“Christmas.”

Christmas? Will we be together at Christmas?

“Yes,” he answers, as if I’ve spoken it out loud. “We will be together at Christmas and long after.”