Junk Mail(28)

As we line up to board the plane, I flip the switch in my head to go into full business mode. No more scoping out Peyton’s curves in my peripheral vision, or wondering if I could get her off through those leggings. I need to use this hour-and-a-half flight to check my sex drive at the gate and focus on what’s ahead of me.

Unfortunately, what’s ahead of me is my seat on the plane. And who is seated right next to me? None other than the world’s sexiest travel companion.

Damn. I’m not sure if that’s luck or some type of cosmic punishment.

I help Peyton stow her bright pink carry-on suitcase in the overhead bin, and she shimmies into the window seat.

Don’t look at her ass, dude. Don’t look at her ass.

Shit. I looked at her ass.

I slide into my own seat and clear my throat. As I focus on fastening my seat belt, I can’t help but notice that Peyton looks slightly nervous.

“You okay?” I ask, gazing at her with concern.

She presses her lips into a line and fumbles with her seat-belt latch. “This is probably a bad time to tell you, but I hate flying.”

I take the seat belt from her trembling hands and fasten it, tightening the belt around her trim hips. “Which part bothers you? The takeoff? The landing?”

She smiles. “Um, all of it. The claustrophobic feeling of being locked in this flying deathtrap. The recycled air that makes me want to gag. The way my stomach jumps when we lift into the air.”

I nod and press my hand over hers, which is gripping the armrest in a death-like grip. “Lucky for you I’m here, then. I have the perfect way to distract you from your fears.”

“You do?” she asks, her wide eyes looking hopefully up at mine.

“I sure do. It’s called a vodka tonic and a lively hand of rummy.” I gesture for the flight attendant and pull a deck of cards out of my bag. “Are you game, or what?”

Peyton smiles. “My hero.”

? ? ?

“The same room as usual, Mr. Hanson?”

With the number of trips I’ve made upstate, both for work and family, I’m damn near a regular at this hotel. I’m not sure if I’m proud or embarrassed that the front-desk ladies and I know each other by name.

“Same as usual, Pam. Thank you.” I shoot her a grateful smile as I accept my keycard.

The team agreed to take a quick breather at the hotel before heading out for a working dinner. And after that flight, trying to share the armrest with Peyton while simultaneously fighting against the pressure building behind my zipper, I’m going to need a cold shower before I do anything work-related. Hopefully it will help get me in the right head space.

When I hit the elevator call button, I quickly realize that plan is going out the door. The elevator dings and slides open to reveal a very worried-looking Peyton, gnawing on her lower lip. She was the first one to check in and ventured off to her room a few minutes ago.

“Oh! Hi, again!” Her blue eyes widen as they lock with mine.

“Hi, yourself. Is everything okay?”

I move out of the way to let her off the elevator, but she doesn’t move an inch. She just keeps biting that lower lip in a way that, frankly, I’ve been dying to do again since the second we stepped out of that coat closet two weeks ago.

“Um, actually, no. It’s not really okay.” She pauses, and I stick out an arm to keep the elevator door from closing. “I was on my way to the front desk because there’s sort of a problem with my room.” Her gaze is cast downward, as if the elevator carpet were suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet.

“Sort of a problem? What qualifies as sort of a problem?”

A nervous giggle slips from her lips. “Okay, not sort of a problem. A problem. But it’s fine. I’m sure the woman at the desk can help me.” She gestures toward the front desk, but cringes when she sees the huge line of people waiting to check in.

“They look pretty swamped. How about I just come check it out?”

I pause, trying to gauge Peyton’s reaction. She knows as well as I do that the two of us shouldn’t be alone together in a hotel room . . . with a bed, or a closet, or really any confined space away from prying eyes. But I’m not trying to pull anything. I’m just trying to help.

She must sense that, because moments later, we’re both in the elevator, headed for her floor so I can scope out whatever sort of problem has Peyton so on edge. I’m assuming a questionable stain on the comforter or a broken TV that’s stuck on the adult channel.

Nope. Much worse.

It was a massive understatement for Peyton to say that there’s a problem with this room. There are problems. Multiple. As in maybe a few dozen. One window is stuck open, letting the chilly fall air blow in, and the whole place reeks of mold. And that’s just my first impression. Between the unmade bed and the towels on the floor, this looks like a room that the cleaning crew forgot . . . for months.

“Holy shit, Peyton. I’m so sorry. I’ve stayed at this hotel dozens of times and never had an issue.”

Scrubbing my hands through my hair, I assess the damage. Even if we get the hotel staff to clean up this dump, there’s no immediate fix for the broken window or the mold issue.

I sit on hold with the front desk for ten minutes before getting the info I was afraid of. As the huge line at the front desk suggested, they’re all booked up for the night. They’re willing to deep clean the place while we’re at dinner, but switching Peyton’s room isn’t a possibility. I’m frustrated as fuck, but I still manage the politest thank you that I can before hanging up and pocketing my phone.