Page 26

Dalton keeps hold of me as we move back to the waterfall shower heads. It’s not until the heady sway of my steps has stopped that he releases me.

“Does this place also come with an endless supply of hot water?” I ask, testing the stream. It is still the exact temperature I had initially set.

“Instant hot water heater.” Dalton steps back under his own shower head, eyes closing and head tilting to let the water wash through his hair.

The view of his toned abs and flexing arms almost has me dragging him back to that bench.

Instead, I snatch a bar of soap from a ledge and begin lathering.

I turn away, not trusting my hands to keep to themselves.

“May I?” Dalton’s arm wraps around me, holding out a frothing loofah.

Apparently, he’s struggling with the same issue.

I eye it before giving a nod. The white poof and Dalton’s arm disappear back out of sight.

Then he’s scrubbing my back. The light scratching is exquisite and I have to stifle the sound making its way up my throat.

Dalton moves with focus and precision, the same way he had during the massage.

He takes his time, showing every inch of my body tender attention.

His lips often trailing the strips of cleaned skin.

When the last of the suds slip from my back, I take the loofah and do the same, exploring his chest and back muscles.

I’m halfway done when I realize I’ve cataloged every line and faint scar.

His body is a map that I will never see after today.

When I finish his back, Dalton turns, catching my hands in a gentle grip.

“Dalton,” I say so quietly I’m not sure he can hear me over the falling water around us. “About our deal…”

He leans down, silencing me with a light kiss.

“Thank you.” He whispers against my mouth, but the expression in his eyes feels less like gratification and more like…

worry? Guilt? I can’t place it. The furrow between his brows deepens before he kisses me feather-light once more.

“I’ll give you some privacy to finish up. Breakfast will be ready when you are.”

And with that, he leaves me standing in the huge shower, loofa in hand and heart pooling on the floor.

By the time I emerge from the bathroom semi-composed and my heart stuffed back into an air-tight container, my bag is waiting on the bed while the smell of bacon and pancakes wafts up the stairs.

I pull open the bag to find my white pants on top, coffee stains gone and legs pressed.

Sometime between the spa and this morning, Dalton had them cleaned.

I run a fingertip over the spotless linen, feeling my heart rattle against the lock I just so carefully clamped on its cage.

Dressed, damp hair tied up in a bun, I head down to find Dalton nursing another coffee while scrolling his phone.

Two plates stacked with banana pancakes and bacon are waiting for us to dig in.

The plop of my bag by the elevator feels like a clap of thunder in the peaceful apartment, the sound pulling his attention.

He takes in my outfit, lingering on the pants, but doesn’t say anything despite the pleased look pursing his lips.

Mercifully, he’s dressed in a pullover and jeans.

If the man hadn’t put a shirt on, we might go for eight after breakfast.

“More coffee?” He’s already moving to pour me another cup.

“Please.” I perch on the center barstool by a waiting plate and begin nibbling on the bacon. Which, of course, is perfection.

“Your boss loves me,” Dalton says, setting a fresh cup at my elbow and claiming the seat nearest mine. I stop mid-chew.

“Excuse me?” I sputter, reaching for the coffee to wash down the food.

Dalton slides his phone over, screen open to a chat.

Ramona’s name sits at the top of a conversation containing a lot of exclamation points.

My eyes drag over the words, catching the main points.

Is his date sure she doesn’t want to be tagged?

We can still reverse the NDAs! Dalton’s curt replies are firm, that privacy is key, bless him.

Quickly flicking up the chain, I stall over the attachments.

A bundle of pictures stare back. The first being the photo from the back seat of Charles’ car.

“You sent her the photos?”

“Just the ones you approved last night, and one more.” Dalton’s hand slides over the back of my chair as he leans in to share the screen. “I know we agreed you got the final say, but I didn’t want to risk you vetoing that last one.”

I’m already tapping into the photo group before he’s done talking. True to his word, only the ones I approved were sent. My thumb stalls, hovering over the last photo, the only one I haven’t seen. Holy. Shit.

The unapproved photo is… steamy. Good God.

This picture alone would have made Ramona’s day.

Dalton lounges on the outdoor sofa, hair tousled, green eyes vibrant as they lock on me through the camera lens over the shoulder of a woman straddling his lap.

Her dress glitters in the firelight under his hands that splay on her back in a way similar to how he had just held me in the shower—possessive, protective, and demanding.

A shiver rushes over my skin. The photo could be a cologne ad.

My face is tucked into his neck, caught in the shadow of his strong jaw line.

Most people would never recognize me as the woman on his lap, but I can see myself in the features.

If someone looked hard, someone who knew me really well, they might notice the similarities.

The saving grace is that it’s impossible to look anywhere but at Dalton.

His gaze is like those old paintings that follow you.

The longer I’m quiet, the more restless Dalton becomes.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I should have asked.” He leans back, shoving a hand through his damp hair. “Jenna, I’m so sorry. She hasn’t posted them yet. I can ask her to pull it. I’m sure?—”

“Guess I won.”

Dalton’s eyebrows knit. “What?

I set the phone down, still staring at the photo. “That last photo of mine puts the rest of yours to shame. Pretty sure I won the best photo competition.”

“So, you’re not pissed?”

I shrug. “You’re right. I would have chickened out on sending that one. But it’s sexy as fuck and you look amazing. That photo alone will sell tickets to next year’s events.”

“ You look amazing in it.” Dalton corrects. “You looked amazing in all the photos you took, but the others didn’t quite meet our agreement.”

He flicks over to the unshared photos, the ones when we started kissing. They’re beautiful. The passion radiating through the screen and setting my skin ablaze at the memory. Guess I kept snapping photos long after our lips locked.

“I was going to delete them, but figured I should ask if you wanted a copy first.” He pushes the phone back toward me, offering me total control.

Yes, I want a copy, something I can pull up to remind me of the way this man kisses, like he owns and worships me.

A photo reminder that this date was real and not a dream.

But the spark of desire burning in my chest, combined with the pleading look in Dalton’s eyes, tells me taking these photos is a bad idea.

The kind that could have me falling in love and ruining my carefully laid plans for the future.

I click the delete button, and both our bodies sag. Dalton moves to the trash folder, clicks select all, then deletes everything permanently.

The next sip of coffee tastes bitter. We pick at the rest of our meal in near silence, the weight of the invisible wall growing between us suffocating.

Choking down a bit of bacon, I remind myself that walking away is for the best. Dating is not a factor in the plan to take care of my father, to build my career, and to dig us out of debt.

Falling for a man like Dalton could derail everything.

Relationships get in the way. Not to mention, if Ramona finds out I put her charity event in jeopardy, my job and entire reputation are on the line.

I will be blacklisted in every metro city and Dad’s bills are literally piling up on my counter, ready to swallow him whole.

“You could stay,” Dalton says to his plate like it’s an indisputable fact.

I twist on the stool. Before I can speak, warm hands catch the back of my neck, lips smothering mine like he can snuff out the rejection perched on the tip of my tongue.

His lips work against mine, sweet and coaxing, nothing like the fiery kisses of the last twenty-four hours.

This is a plea. Stay with me whispers with the gentle sweep of his tongue, pleads with the tender press of his fingers into the nape of my neck.

His forehead dips to mine, mouth hovering over mine.

“Extend our agreement another twenty-four hours. We don’t have to go back to the real world until Monday.”

I roll my forehead against his, brushing our noses.

“And what will stop us from extending it again tomorrow?”

“Maybe nothing.” His thumb traces my jaw, eyes opening. There’s a glint there. Vulnerability? I want to say yes, to see where this goes. Which means I have to say no. We’re playing close to the line, pushing us toward something more than the agreed-upon fling.

I run my nails through the light stubble shading his jaw. He leans into the touch, then presses his lips to my palm.

“No strings.” I remind both of us. “This was supposed to be fun. Easy.”

“It could be.”

“Dalton.” I rake my fingers through the thick hair at his temple before sitting back. “You have a celebrity stalker, I’m quite sure we committed some kind of bidding fraud, and I have elephant-sized baggage in the shape of my family. Strings don’t come with ‘easy’.”