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There’s no mulling the options for her. Nope. She’s a woman who knows what she wants. “Are you in the area?”Sinker.

And even though I’m apparently not her type, I’m the lucky asshole she wants.At least tonight.But I’m up for any challenge she throws my way, including changing her mind about the kind of guy shethinksis her type. “Just around the corner.”

She pushes up from her chair. “Then what are we waiting for?”

I won’t keep her waiting. I’m on my feet, and we’re out the door. But when we’re holding hands walking down the street, I start to realize that this feels too good to part ways twice. Here I thought I was getting her to fall for me, but it’s obvious that I’m the one who’s sunk.

* * *

The doorman holdsthe door wide for us, nodding to Natalie, and then saying, “Welcome back, Mr. Christiansen.”

Though my cover’s been blown, she doesn’t say a peep after hearing my last name, but sensing the silence that’s shrouded us, I can tell she’s dying to. I tell him, “Thank you,” and press my hand to Natalie’s lower back, walking beside her to the elevator.

When the elevator doors slide open, we maneuver inside, slumping against the mirrored wall, and begin a round of the quiet game. Grasping the brass railing, I brace myself for the impending onslaught of questions.

Abruptly turning to face me, she asks, “Christiansen is your last name?”

I can’t read her tone. Is she mad we can’t continue pretending there’s an iota of anonymity, or is she curious because she didn’t imagine me as a Christiansen? I can’t say my name in LA without instant recognition, but I don’t think it holds the same weight in Manhattan. That’s exactly why I’m here—to expand the business and brand. “I had no idea he’d say it. It’s not going to get all weird between us, is it?”

Elbowing me in the arm, and though her expression is shaped by amusement, she replies, “Everything about us remains weird, except your name. Nick Christiansen is a great name. It’s strong and classic, like a Ralph Lauren model. It suits you.”

I lift her hand and kiss the inside of her wrist. Exotic with the faintest sweet scent of fragrant undernote. “I’m not sure what that means, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” The elevator dings, stealing her gaze away. She starts moving, but I tug her back, wondering if she’s going to share her surname.

She’s captured a second wind, the renewed energy felt when she tugs me forward. “Come on, Nick Christiansen.”

I want to know everything about her, but I won’t pressure her for secrets she doesn’t want to share. As I’ve learned, what’s meant to be will be.

Without hesitation or questions, she gives me her trust and follows me down the hall. I unlock the suite and let her enter first. Although my steps are tentative, hers are not, and she enters like she entered the villa in Catalina—like she owns the place.

The drapes are wide open, and we’re greeted by a dark cityscape dotted with lights across the wall-to-wall windows. The room has been serviced since I was here this afternoon. The king-sized bed is readied with chocolates on the pillows and blankets turned down, while a lamp in the corner gives off a hint of light.

Natalie heads straight for the window and raises her hands to press against the glass but lowers them slowly back to her sides and peers out instead. You’d think from her initial excitement she didn’t live in the city, and this is a new view for her.

My gaze slinks down her back and the denim covering her lower half. Fuck me, she knows how to wear denim. Pulling myself away from her, I click on another lamp by the sofa to add more light to the situation, which seems to snap her from her thoughts.

“It’s a nice view,” she says.

“It is,” I reply, not taking my eyes off her.

I never forgot how gorgeous she was, but seeing her again highlights details that had begun to fade from my memories—the sweet slope from her neck to her shoulders and the way the light catches in her eyes despite how dim the room is. But it’s those lips—full, pink, with a sharp bow at the top, kissable lips. They’re a distraction. It was more than a struggle not to stare at the bar.Even harder not to kiss her.

Shedding my jacket, I toss it over the chair, and ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Water works. Thanks.”

I twist the cap off and hand her the bottle when I join her by the windows to look out. I prefer the chattier version of Natalie, finding comfort in her stories and company.

Deeper thoughts have invaded her eyes since we arrived, and I’m not sure what to say. She moves to the bed and sits on the edge, forcing a smile. “You didn’t tell me how long you’re in town.”

Sitting on the sofa, I’m not sure what to think. Her mood has shifted, and the last thing I want is for her to feel uncomfortable. “I can call a car for you if you’d like?”

She leans back on her hands and rolls her head to the side. “Is that what you want?”

“No. I’d rather you stay and talk to me about Quokkas or anything you want, except me. I’m not that interesting, and more so, I like hearing you talk, but small talk doesn’t suit us.”

Relief washes through her, and she comes over to me, nudging my feet apart with hers. She fills the space, knowing I want her here as much as she wants to be here. My eyes briefly dip closed when she runs her fingers through my hair. “No, it doesn’t.” It’s just a whisper, but I hear other intentions in her tone.