Because this? This is dangerous. And I don’t have to be a genius to know it.
Ryder pulls me close and buries his face in the crook of my neck. His breath fans over my skin, and warm shivers go through me.
“I promise you won’t regret it,” he mumbles. “Make you the envy of the world.”
“Ryder—”
His arms tighten around me, cutting me off. He falls on the bed, dragging me down. I yelp. Somehow he manages to cushion me, then rolls until I’m lying under him.
“Say yes, Paige. I need the painting,” he speaks against my neck.
His hard body presses down on mine, and my skin prickles. I don’t dare say a word because I don’t trust myself to be rational. Not when my brain can’t seem to process any thought except, Oh my god, Ryder Reed is on top of me! Ohmygod, Ryder Reed is on top of me! Ohmygod, RyderReedisontopofme!
I stare up at the white ceiling. Maybe I fell asleep after dinner. This has to be some bizarre, fat- and sugar-fueled dream because he isn’t making any sense. What does marrying me have anything to do with paintings or Julian “fucking” him and his siblings over?
And I’m having this dream because I’m single again, and Ryder has starred in my fantasies more than once. But what woman hasn’t fantasized about him? He’s been voted The Sexiest Man Alive three times. He’s the devil put on earth to test women.
After a beat of silence, Ryder says, “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” There’s no other answer. Besides, he’s drunk. Even when he’s sober, he calls me “babe” because he “can’t remember names.” No way am I taking this seriously.
“Forget I said anything.”
“Are you taking back your proposal?”
He nods, scraping his five o’clock shadow against my neck. It goes straight to my bloodstream, desire pulsing through my nerve endings. Aching warmth spreads through me, and I rein myself in. What the hell is wrong with me? He is drunk. This doesn’t count.
I don’t know how much time passes, but he’s starting to grow heavy. “Ryder?” I poke at him.
He doesn’t move.
“Ryder?” I say more loudly.
He’s utterly inert, but warm and breathing.
Wait… Did he fall asleep?
I crane my neck back to peer at his face. Yup, he did.
I’m partly relieved. Of course he passed out. He drank a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of scotch after all.
With considerable effort, I lever myself out from under him and sit up.
Romance novels I read often describe sleeping heroes as relaxed, approachable and sweet. Ryder is anything but. A frown pinches his eyebrows, and lines of tension bracket his tight mouth. A lock of hair falls forward. I reach over to push it back, then suddenly jump to my feet.
What am I doing? I should know better than to get involved.
I pace. When I was hired, Mira said to focus on Ryder’s flaws if I couldn’t control myself around him, and he has so many, it hurts my head. The man drank a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of scotch in one day!
But he’s rich. It’s like you blowing ten bucks on a drink.
Oh shut up, self! Then he came into my hotel room, uninvited and drunk, and threw the most ridiculous proposal ever in my face.
And then took it back!
He’s drunk. Give the man a break.
I hate it when the perverse part of me wants to argue. Why can’t it just go along with the program?
Putting my hands on my hips, I stare at the lump of divine masculine perfection sleeping in my bed. He has flaws. Oh so many flaws. Serious flaws. Ones that make him not at all attractive to me.
He shifts in his sleep and reaches out with a hand. I regard it for a long while, a tug-of-war raging inside me. Finally I sit on the edge of the bed, take it gently, and watch the tension ease from his face.
Chapter Seven
Ryder
The first thing I notice is the light. The room is too bright to be mine—I have blackout curtains. My head is clear, of course. I never get hung over—the single positive trait I got from Dad’s side of the family.
At the same time my eyes feel dry and sandy. Just because I don’t get hung over doesn’t mean everything works perfectly after a night of excessive indulgence.
I rub them, then try to focus on my surroundings.
The pale vaulted ceiling. A vase of fresh cut lilies. And a cheap piece of art that isn’t worth the canvas it’s painted on.
I sit up and look down. I’m in a king-sized bed, its silk-like white cotton sheet tangled around me. My jacket’s gone, but I’m in the same shirt and pants I had on yesterday, only they’re now wrinkled. And smelly.
How the hell did I end up here? I try to piece things together. After I dropped off Elliot, I came over to the hotel, the front desk gave me a key and…
“You’re up.”
My head swivels to the armchair where Paige is sitting and watching me. She’s in a light green tunic and conservative custard-colored skirt. The ever-present apple pendant rests right at the start of her cleavage. Her hair’s pulled back into a cute ponytail, and the makeup on her face is darker than usual.
My memory slowly starts to come back. Me coming into the suite. Her in that outrageously hilarious t-shirt and shorts. I’ve never seen her disheveled like that before.
I asked her to marry me.
And then… And then… I fell onto the bed with her. And she was soft and sweet, and even though I should’ve let go, I didn’t. I just stayed exactly where I was because I just couldn’t bring myself to give her up, even though she lay there stiff as a tabletop.
Did I…do anything? I don’t give a shit if I was drunk. It wouldn’t excuse my forcing myself on her. I look down. Since I’m still in my clothes, un-torn and basically undamaged, I probably didn’t cross that line.
Whew. So what did I do next? I wrack my brain, then it hits me.
I took the proposal back, while still lying on top of her.
Oh shit.
Then what? She…kneed me in the balls? Slapped my face?
I don’t recall. After that, everything faded to black.
I cover my face and put pressure on the spot between my eyebrows with my middle finger. Fuck me. What the hell have I done?
“How are you feeling?” Paige asks.
“I’m fine.” Then a realization dawns on me. “You’re in my room.”
“Ah, no, this is actually my room. Yours would be next door.”
Shit. Fucking hotel clerks. They probably thought I wanted to rendezvous with Paige without realizing she isn’t some H&D wannabe. “Did you spend the night here?” This is getting embarrassing because I don’t remember that part either.
“No. Once I knew you were fine, I went to your suite. Which, by the way, is nicer than mine. I’m only here to check on you.” She stands up. “Our car’s going to be here in half an hour. You might want to get up and, you know, shower. I asked the cabin crew to prepare a hot breakfast for you.”
She turns smartly, about to walk out, and I say, “Wait,” before I can catch myself.
She glances over a shoulder. “Yes?”
Her voice is coolly professional, and my gaze drops. “Nothing. I’ll be down in the lobby in thirty.”