“I’m sorry about this.”
I frown. “About what?”
“Staying here without letting you or your team know.” She shrugs, an elegant motion. “I feel like I just invited myself.”
“It’s a hotel, not my apartment.”
Her lips curve into a half smile. “Yes, I suppose. But it’s hard not to think of it like that. Your name is on the building, after all.”
A part of my brain is occupied with very unhelpful thoughts. The awareness of her robe and what might be beneath it is like a hammer beating against my skull.
“An upgrade,” I say. “We’d like to offer you a complimentary upgrade.”
“Oh.” She looks back into her room. I glimpse the corner of a queen-size bed. “This room is plenty good for me.”
“To the penthouse suite.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh.”
“Consider it research, Miss Bishop. That suite has a lot of history, you know. And you could take pictures for your team.”
She looks from her bag on the floor to me, and then the decision is made, her face settling into professionalism. “You’re right, I’d love that. Let me pack?”
“Whenever you’re ready,” I say and pull the door closed to give her privacy.
The business excuse was a good one. It’s not untrue, either. The penthouse suite is one of the things we’re most famous for, at least within a certain circle. Seeing it would be helpful. I just hadn’t thought of it until I stood here.
Five minutes later, the door opens again. She’s in a pair of black pants and a tank top, leaving her tanned arms bare.
“All right, lead the way,” she says brightly. She motions to her wet hair, braided down her back. “Sorry for this, by the way. I enjoyed the spa area earlier.”
“You used the pool?”
“Yes.”
I reach for her weekend bag, and she lets me take it. “Thanks,” she says.
It’s a gesture I’ve done a thousand times. But tonight, it’s hers, and not Summer’s or my mother’s or a date’s.
We walk toward the elevators. “Did you choose to stay here for research?” I ask. “If so, I wish you would have spoken to the team. We would never have charged you for the night.”
She shakes her head. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Of course, you could.”
“I already enjoyed your hospitality in DC.”
I call for the elevator. The penthouse suite has its own, but it’s located half a building away. “So, you didn’t check in for research, then?”
“Partly,” she says. “I’ve wanted to swim in the art deco pool since you showed it to me. The vaulted ceiling is even more stunning when you’re floating on your back.”
“I can imagine,” I say, my hand tightening around the handle of her bag.
“I just want to make sure we get this right,” she says. “This pitch.”
“Your dedication is admirable.” I hit the code in the elevator. It overrides the standard operations and will take us up to the top floor without interruption. Not directly into the suite, though. That exclusive elevator is only available behind the desk in the lobby.
“Thank you for the upgrade,” she says beside me.