“It is pretty,” he agreed and accepted his glass.
She watched him as she took a sip, probing him with a look, but he could tell she was off. Clearly, the room was a problem.
He risked a look at the bed, then back at Trace. “Think people get rose petals jammed in their butt cracks while they’re getting it on?”
She snorted a laugh, immediately disarmed. “And who cleans it up? I’d hate to put out the room service request on the door just because my bed is covered in wilting, sex-crumpled rose petals.”
He took a sip of his wine, the tart zip of it biting him back. He flipped open the area guide and found a restaurant that delivered, and they were able to order and sit back and wait.
The room was nice, with high ceilings and windows that stretched the width of the room and from floor to ceiling. Trace had set the fire going, the room already getting toasty despite the open slider. The promised table sat in the corner with two chairs, comfy enough to settle in with a meal, but not a curl-up-in sort of chair for reading… and definitely not comfortable enough to sleep on.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he offered simply.
“All three feet of it?” Trace said, gesturing to the narrow space surrounding the bed, abutted to wall, fireplace, or windows.
“I’ve slept worse places.”
“And you shouldn’t have to ever again. Especially on vacation.”
“Are you volunteering to take the floor?” he asked with a devious nod.
Trace snorted anas-ifand dropped into the other seat. She pointed at him as she cradled her wine. “Pippa did this on purpose.”
“Maybe after she saw us at the bachelor party, she thought we were together? I mean, you were all over me,” he teased, watching her reaction over the rim of his glass. He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help it. If nothing else, humor was a better strategy than to let the distance grow any thicker.
“And who was the one whispering all sorts of dirty things in who’s ear?” she fired back.
“And who’s boobs were in who’s face?” It was probably entirely his fault. When she’d ditched the sweatshirt, relaxed, and that tank top kept sliding down and she seemed to find every excuse to reach across him or gesture boisterously… yeah. He hadn’t slept a wink that night.
Trace cradled her wine by her face and took another sip, rolling her eyes at him. “I very specifically explained to her that we are not a thing.”
“Then why would she intentionally put us in a hotel room together?”
Trace nodded slowly, eyebrows lifting and lowering, all-knowing. “Pippa reads a lot of romance novels. The infamous ‘only one bed’ trope.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he gulped a swallow of wine, inhaling sharply at the buttery tart burn. “That’s a thing? Like we’re magically going to have sex because we’re sleeping in the same bed?”
“Apparently. I guess we’ll have to prove her wrong.” Trace lifted a single eyebrow as if ready to win a dare.
Ouch. Understatement to end all understatements, as the knife carved a hunk of hope out of whatever thread he’d had left in his heart. Maybe he could sleep in the car.
12
Break the ice
Pippawasabsolutelygoingto pay for this. Something big. Something devious. Trace was already becoming more enthralled by the man each day they were together, each relaxing movie night, each sweaty workout, or whatever. All of it.
Certainly, it didn’t help that he kept looking at her like that. Leaning over the bed, he scooped the rose petals into a bin and looked up at her, a hint of smile masked behind a poker face before he looked back down. That endless curiosity in his eyes, as if she was an intricate puzzle. Or worse—better?—when his inhale halted as they made eye contact, or when he’d bite the edge of his tongue and quickly look away.
After dinner, Trace tried to look busy, but she couldn’t resist watching him as she sifted through her suitcase. As soon as he was satisfied that there were no more rose petals to be found, he changed into simple black joggers that he’d picked up on their shopping trip, with a black under shirt that was snug enough to make her drool, even though she knew what everything looked like under the shirt. On the petal-free, neatly made bed, he sat with his knees up, wincing as he adjusted the pressure off his ankle, and leaned against the pillow stack he’d made.
Toiletries organized and ready, Trace glared into the suitcase. Well, shit. With her own room, she could sleep in whatever, so she hadn’t packed anything to wear to bed. Leggings. Jeans. Dresses and skirts. Foot grinding into the floor, hands on her hips, she flicked a look in his direction, a desperate plea forming on her lips before she could find the words to even ask.
Cole looked slowly up from his book and the corners of his mouth lifted into a sweet, devilish smile that sent her skin flushing and her imagination swirling. “Can I, uh, help you?” he asked.
“Do you have an extra pair of sweatpants or something? I have nothing to wear on the bottom half.”
One side if his mouth lifted higher, and she could see him trying to reduce the flirt. “Only one bedandno pajamas? This could get out of hand.”
