One Bossy Offer (147)

He clears his throat, frustration and confusion lining his face. “You’re damn right. This room is supposed to be mine for the weekend. My key is on the counter next to the sink if that makes you feel better.”

I glance toward the bathroom sink. Sure enough, a sleek silver card with the word Winthrope engraved across it in black letters lays beside it.

So he has proof.

Annoying.

“I thought you were a serial killer,” I whisper.

“I feel like one now. I just got off an international flight and didn’t expect this shit. All I wanted was a shower and some sleep before I was rudely accosted by a crazy chick in a t-shirt with string beans for arms while I tried to wash Australia away.”

“String beans?” I repeat. “Are you calling me weak?”

He shrugs.

“You dropped the lamp.” He shakes his head, glancing at the mess on the floor. “That was a beauty, too.”

Wait.

He just said international flight and talks like this is his room. For real, I mean.

Has he been here? How does he know what the lamp looked like before I blew it to smithereens?

Before I can ask, he interrupts.

“Nobody just waltzes into the presidential suite. Who the hell are you?” His glance almost cuts me in two.

“My name is Piper.” I swallow. “I’m supposed to have a reservation here for the next few days. I checked in at the front desk. They gave me a keycard and what I thought was an amazing upgrade. I had a drink at the poolside bar and came upstairs to crash. You know, everything normal people do when they start a nice trip. It was all going swell until a naked crazy barged in and started threatening me.”

“Threatening? Give me a break,” he says slowly, his eyes falling to my feet. “How are you still standing and running that mouth?”

Oof.

When an underwear model stares at your feet rather than your face, it’s not a compliment. Then I look down and notice the streak of red I’ve left on the tile.

“You should sit,” he growls. “Can you still walk or do I need to carry you?”

“W-what?” I stammer out.

“Your foot. It’s bleeding pretty bad. You’ll want to get your weight off it and check for glass.”

For a second, my breath stalls and I’m just staring.

Don’t tell me this weirdo is a doctor too? Because that would be the final blow.

“No, no, I’m okay,” I whisper, pinching my eyes shut. “Way to change the subject, though. I still don’t understand. What, you’re saying we both have reservations for this room? That makes no sense.”

He glowers.

I hope he knows I’m still not sure if I believe his story.

But it could be true.

This is a hard place to get into without the right keycard, after all.

“Some dumbass downstairs obviously made a mistake and overbooked the room. Give me a minute to yell at them.” He strides toward me, this walking mountain.

I take a deep breath, unsure what to do.

“You’re between me and the door. I already asked, are you okay to walk or should I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs loudly. “Fuck it, hold still.”

Next thing I know, I’m airborne.

Slung over his shoulder.

My injured foot curls against his leg as we glide into the room.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, trying not to sound panicked.

“I’m not having you hurting yourself more,” he rumbles. “Besides, you’ll get blood on the carpet, and that’s expensive shit. I’m not waiting for another French decorator to replace it.”

“I don’t know you!” I screech in his ear, slapping at his shoulder. “Look, just put me down. I can make it a few feet.”

If he hears me, he totally ignores it.

He doesn’t stop moving until we’re next to the bed and he’s still holding on.

“Seriously, this isn’t funny. Who are you?” I spit.

“I’m—” He pauses, his blue eyes cold and assessing. “What does it look like? I’m the resort manager. They let me have this room when there are no reservations, which happens more than you think when it’s normally eight thousand dollars per night. I’m just doing my job and saving us both some grief. There’s a heap of red tape whenever it needs a repair.”

Why do I get the impression he’s lying?

Still, resort manager is the only way to explain any of this.

I try not to breathe. I’m instantly aware of his smell wafting over me, somehow fresh and evergreen and manly when he’s just stepped out of the shower.

I don’t speak until he drops me into a plush chair next to the balcony door. I lift my foot, feeling cautiously for any glass shards.

“Well?” he demands. “How’s it look? Do I need to get you a doctor?”

I look up and—

Dear God.

His hands are on his hips.

Of course that towel slid down a few more inches.

I’ve never seen a real man who has an actual V of hard muscle. I try not to think about how I’ve never seen a man who’s packing an entire howitzer, either.

“Lady, are you—”

“I’m f-fine!” I force out. I’m so not fine. “Sorry about the lamp,” I add.