“I think you may be overestimating how nice this hotel is.”
He grabbed a menu off the nightstand. “Room service... brownie sundae.”
“Not a bad compromise at all. But we really do have to—”
“I know, I know.”
“Not that I’m not tempted.”
Though she doubted she could have even started to explain just how tempted she really was. He couldn’t know what he did to her—but she had certainly done an embarrassingly good job of showing him, what with her going off like fireworks whenever he had so much as grazed her body with his, what with her admitting that he felt like a dream. Any other man would have bolted for the door after she’d said, “Be mine,” in her rush to feel him inside her. Not Martin.
And he had said that they would have to be careful. Would have to be—like they would be doing this again. Excitement made Tiffani’s toes curl.
She had gone a long time without much good luck, but this kind of passionate fling felt like exactly what she needed exactly when she needed it. As long as she didn’t lose her head.
Well, as long as she didn’t lose her head any further than sneaking off for a lunchtime quickie on her first day at a new job.
There was a bomb threat, she thought defensively as she buttoned up that ridiculously prim skirt of hers. I’m sure that excuses a little bit of self-indulgence.
Or six feet however many inches of self-indulgence.
Martin was still in bed, leaning against the headboard, looking at her with seemingly real regret as she donned each separate item of clothing.
He said, “I could read the dessert descriptions for you if you want to live vicariously.”
Tiffani laughed. “Please do. It’ll take me a minute to freshen up.”
“Brownie sundae,” Martin said. “My promise to you for later. A warm dark chocolate walnut brownie fresh out of the oven and topped with locally made French vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of sweet caramel sauce. Creamy New York cheesecake topped with cherries. Chocolate cheesecake with a rich Oreo crust, shavings of fine dark chocolate, and a dollop of homemade whipped cream. And... that’s it. It’s not much of a menu, two cheesecakes and a brownie sundae.”
“I don’t know that my willpower could have held out for another description, so it’s probably for the best.”
“Not if another description would have put you back in this bed,” Martin said.
Tiffani couldn’t keep from smiling at that, but she still shook her head. She was willing to be bold and take some chances—maybe even take more chances than a lot of people would think she should.
But this job was her shot at building a life of her own, and she couldn’t risk losing it. The world was mostly kind, but that didn’t mean it gave you unlimited chances, especially if you were the scandalous ex-trophy wife of one of the biggest white-collar criminals of the decade. No amount of temptation could have gotten her back in that bed, and the way she knew it was that Martin was still there and yet she wasn’t. Proof positive.
“Could I have your number?” she said.
Martin reached at once for the little pad of paper and pen on the nightstand. The speed at which he wrote out his phone number and handed it over to her was a nice compliment.
Tiffani folded up the slip of paper and slid it into her purse. She was under no illusions about what that purse might look like a few weeks from now, but in the first few days of her self-reinvention, it was still spick-and-span and impossible to lose things in. She could open it anytime she wanted and look down at that sheet of paper, a cozy promise of future happiness.
She walked to the side of the bed and leaned down to kiss him. No longer in the heat of the moment, she could take the time to note the clean smell of his aftershave, like cotton and seawater, and to feel the delicate bristle of his short hair under the palm of her hand. She lingered there.
And this was my quick exit.
“I’ll call you. You still owe me dessert.”
“Two kinds of cheesecake and a brownie sundae,” Martin promised. “And actually, I might see you this afternoon, if the trial goes forward at all today.”
She couldn’t pretend that she didn’t like the thought of him stationed in the corner of the room, even if it did mean she would have to proofread her pages a little more carefully before she turned them over to the judge. But she would have to restrain herself from asking him out again after the day wrapped up. She didn’t want to come on too strong.
And, even more importantly, she didn’t want to make a mistake. Not right now.
But she wouldn’t, right? She had this covered.
*