Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(14)

“That will never work,” I argue. “Because you would feel like a heel making the pregnant lady take the cot. And I would feel like a diva asking the six-foot-tall athlete to sleep there.”

“Six-two,” he corrects me.

“We’ll share the bed,” I repeat. I’m so tired right now I just need a tiny fractional part of the bed and I’ll be gone from this world.

“Fine. If I can pretend to be your boyfriend outside of this room, I suppose I can pretend to be a gentleman inside it.”

“Is it that much of a stretch?” I walk over to the nearest side, lift the covers and slide in.

“I guess you’ll find out,” he says.

I throw four throw pillows overboard and wiggle down in the sheets. I sigh as my head hits the pillow. I don’t even dignify his taunt with a response. I feel perfectly safe with Eric. He might not like this arrangement. But he’s not going to hurt me.

My eyelids feel heavy when I close them.

Footsteps cross the rug, and the lamp beside my head goes out. He says two words so quietly that I almost miss them. “Goodnight, Sleepmonster.”

I would answer him, but I’m already asleep.





5





Eric





When I open my sticky eyes the next morning, the clock beside me says 5:23.

Ouch. Jetlag.

Although maybe it’s not just the jet lag that woke me. It’s too warm in this bed. And all that heat is coming from a sleeping woman who’s curled up against my back, her nose in the nape of my neck. She’s thrown a smooth leg over mine, and her hand is wrapped around my waist.

Holy hell. Not only does she throw off as much heat as a campfire, my subconscious hasn’t missed those soft curves molded to my back, or that hand that’s only a few inches north of my erection.

Christ. I close my eyes, and—for the briefest moment—I allow myself to imagine what it would be like to just roll over and pull her warm, sweet body underneath mine. It’s been way too long since I saw any action. I’m due.

Then I open my eyes and remember how sharply she turned me down that night in Florida. There was no ambiguity there.

That cruddy memory wakes me up and settles me down at the same time. I need to get out of this bed. Slowly, I ease myself away from her body. Alex doesn’t move. I am pure stealth as I slide my feet over the side of the bed and sit up. Having accomplished that, I rise and make my way into the living room of the suite, where it’s cooler.

The sky outside our floor-to-ceiling windows shows only a streak of light on the horizon. But it’s enough to see the ocean shining back at me. I unlock the sliding glass door and push it open. A fresh, salty breeze rises to meet me.

When I step outside, I see how large the terrace of this suite really is. It wraps to the side, past a table and two chairs, lush flower boxes, and... Is that a private lap pool? It’s rectangular, and maybe fifteen feet long by four feet wide.

Okay. Maybe an unexpected week in Hawaii isn’t pure torture.

After I give myself a tour of the fancy private patio, I return inside to find the in-room coffee maker. I pop an espresso pod inside. Two minutes later I’m sipping coffee when I hear Alex stirring in the bedroom. She makes a phone call, and then I hear water splashing in the bathroom.

I’m contemplating a second cup of coffee when I hear a knock on the door of the suite.

“Alex? Are you expecting anyone?” I call toward the bedroom.

“I ordered food. Let them in.” There’s a beat of silence. “Please.”

I’m still wearing boxers only. But who cares, right? The delivery guy has probably seen worse. And I tip well. So I cross to the door and pull it open.

Hell, there are five hotel employees outside, bearing two carts, a room service table, and God knows what else. “Are you sure you have the right room?”

“Delivery for Alex Engels.”

I step aside but watch them with growing suspicion. Maybe I do share my brother’s genome after all. Why five people? And what’s all this stuff?

It becomes clear a moment later as the employees unload a disturbing amount of food from those carts into the suite’s kitchenette. There’s a case of bottled water, plus several other beverages and mixers. There’s fruit piled in a basket. Boxes of crackers. Various cheeses and yogurts are tucked into the refrigerator, along with pate and other charcuterie items. There’s cereal, milk, various teas, cookies, and biscuits.

“My God,” I grumble.

“Sorry to take so long, sir,” someone says. “Your breakfast is still hot.”

I notice another employee setting out the room service items on the dining table. There’s two big plates with omelets, bacon, potatoes, toast and fruit. There’s a pot of coffee, for which I’m grateful.

“Sign here.” A bill wallet is thrust against my chest.

“Um, gratuity…”

“Already added,” the young man says.

Of course it is. I scribble my signature.

“Oh, and here’s your package.” The guy hands me a box and then follows his coworkers out into the hallway.

I look down at the box I’m holding against my bare belly. It weighs hardly anything at all, and it’s addressed to me, not Alex. The sender is listed as MAX YOUR ASSHOLE BROTHER.