“They moved me because they had to fumigate my suite,” he told Olivia that night as he let himself into the suite next to hers after their last client dinner in San Francisco.
“Fumigate? Against what?”
“Hey, you’re the bug expert. Not me.”
“There are bugs, and then there are bedbugs. You didn’t ask?”
“Naw.” The last thing he needed was Olivia talking to the hotel manager about bedbugs. “I think they said something about ants.”
“That’s odd.”
“I don’t make the rules. I just follow them.”
“When it suits you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You’ve got ‘rule breaker’ written all over that exquisite face of yours. You just hide it behind fake charm.” With an operatic sweep, she disappeared into her suite.
He gazed at the door she’d closed between them. He had an instinct for spotting trouble—a free safety shifting his body to the left, a lineman switching the hand he had on the ground. It was part of his job to be alert, and he wanted The Diva nearby. Now all he had to do was come up with a logical reason to keep their connecting door open.
He undressed, brushed his teeth, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants before he rapped on the door between their rooms.
“What do you want?” she said from the other side.
He rapped again.
She finally opened the door. He didn’t know exactly what he’d expected her to be wearing, but it was something along the lines of a filmy black negligee with maybe a frilly sleep mask pushed on top of her head. Instead, she wore a Chicago Jazz Festival T-shirt and pajama bottoms printed with dill pickles.
He groaned. “My eyes will never be the same.”
She let her own eyes roam over his bare chest, taking her time. “Mine, either.”
Her open appreciation of his hard-earned muscles nearly threw him off his game. She smiled, knowing she’d gotten the advantage. “You remind me of an art museum,” she said. “Look all you want, but don’t touch.”
“Some museums are designed for a more sensory experience.”
She was tough. She didn’t miss a beat. “Been there. Done that. Not doing it again. What’s wrong?”
He rubbed his chin. “This is embarrassing.”
“All the better.”
“I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself, but . . . Once you’re ready to turn out the lights, would you mind leaving the door between us open?”
“Oh, dear . . . Afraid of the dark?”
He thought fast. “More like . . . claustrophobia.”
“Claustrophobia?”
“It hits now and then, okay? Forget I asked. I know how you women like to complain about men being afraid to show their vulnerability, but the minute one of us lets you see his sensitive side—”
“It’s fine. I’ll leave the door open.” She regarded him suspiciously. “Maybe you should talk to a therapist.”
“You think I haven’t?” He improvised. “Bottom line—closed-
door phobia is nothing to mess with.”