Part 11 (1/2)

My room is so cute, I'm still half-convinced I'm dreaming. Cream, white-paneled walls, earthy sisal rugs, a four-poster spindle bed. There's even a clawfoot Victorian tub opposite the bed. It's too romantic, really. The kind of setup where I'd be bathing in a seductive manner while my man reclined on the bed to watch until he couldn't stand the torture any longer and crawled in to join me. We'd make a mess of the floor, spilling water, laughing while we f.u.c.ked.

A nice picture.

Only I'm alone in the dark beneath crisp linens, utterly awake and watching the lights of pa.s.sing cars below trail across the ceiling. I should be sleeping, but jet lag has snuck upon me with a terrible vengeance. I'm so freaking awake, my body hums with the need to get up. Bad idea. Sleep is needed.

I'm concentrating so hard on trying to fall asleep, the ping of my phone startles me. Fumbling, I reach for it on my nightstand. I'm not even sure who I expected to be texting me at 2 am. But I certainly didn't consider him.

Suns.h.i.+ne: If you don't sleep now, you're setting yourself up for even worse jet lag.

I immediately bite back a ridiculous grin, as if he'll see me through the phone.

Me: If you're so worried about my sleep, you shouldn't text me in the middle of the night.

He pings back an answer.

Suns.h.i.+ne: Small chance of waking you. I knew you'd be up.

Me: Oh? You psychic?

Suns.h.i.+ne: No. Just awake as well. And remembering your inability to calm down.

Me: False! I can do calm!!!!!

Suns.h.i.+ne: As exhibited by your subtle use of exclamation points.

I laugh in the dark of the room, drawing my knees up to my chest. My heartbeat has accelerated. I'm giddy like a d.a.m.n schoolgirl. And isn't that a b.i.t.c.h?

He'd stuck me firmly in employee land, then he brought me a sandwich. I'm not even sure he trusts me, and yet here he is, texting me in the middle of the night. Maybe he's lonely. Or maybe he's looking for a hookup. He's nothing like the men I've been with before, so I can't be sure. But I can't pretend I don't enjoy flirting with him, even if it ends up leading nowhere.

Me: Your sarcasm smells of slain interns' blood and the souls of missing record execs.

Suns.h.i.+ne: False. That is what I eat for breakfast. Keep up, Darling.

I laugh, though he can't hear me. I can almost see his expression, always deadpan but with that hint of crinkle at the corners of his eyes and full lips. That infinitesimal twitch of a smile most people clearly miss. The world fascinates Gabriel Scott, but he does a h.e.l.l of a job pretending it doesn't. That much I know already.

Me: Aw...terms of endearment already?

Suns.h.i.+ne: It's your name.

Me: A convenient excuse.

Suns.h.i.+ne: A legitimate answer Me: I've never had anyone call me by my last name. Should I call you by yours? Call you Scottie like the others do?

Suns.h.i.+ne: No.

I'm half teasing, because I don't want to call him Scottie. That's not his name to me. That's a stranger's name. But the emphatic force of his reply makes me wonder why he doesn't want me to use it, when everyone in his circle does. My thumb shakes a little as I tap out a reply, adopting a more serious tone, because really, what the h.e.l.l am I doing flirting with the big boss?

Me: Well, you caught me. I can't sleep for s.h.i.+t. I'll have to live with the consequences.

Little dots form at the bottom of my phone screen. They disappear, then start up again. I wonder what the h.e.l.l he's trying to write and if he's erasing his text.

I almost send him a message just to prod his a.s.s into whatever it is he's trying to say, when his message finally pops up. And I gape. And gape. My heart stops and then picks up pounding. I'm not seeing things; it's there, clear as day: Suns.h.i.+ne: Would you like to come over?

What. The. h.e.l.l?

I'm clearly stuck in shock mode too long because he texts in a barrage of tense explanations.

Suns.h.i.+ne: For tea.

Suns.h.i.+ne: To help you sleep.

Suns.h.i.+ne: I make good tea.

He makes tea? Gabriel I've-no-time-for-mere-mortals Scott actually makes tea? And drinks it? Shut the front door and call me Mama.

He's still texting.

Suns.h.i.+ne: h.e.l.l. Clearly sleep deprived.

Suns.h.i.+ne: Ignore request.

I type fast, putting the poor guy out of his misery.

Me: Where are you?

Me: Your house, I mean. Where is it?

He pauses. I know he's frowning at the phone. Probably has been for some time now. I bite back another smile.

Suns.h.i.+ne: A few blocks away. I could send a car.

Me: No. I'll walk.

Suns.h.i.+ne: You will not. I'll meet you.

My grin actually hurts my cheeks. I'm already out of the bed and scrambling for my jeans.

Me: Okay. Where?

Suns.h.i.+ne: In front of your hotel. Ten minutes.

”This is crazy. This is crazy,” I mutter as I haul on my jeans and root around in my suitcase for a bra and top. I don't bother with the light as if it might kick-start my common sense and I'd text Gabriel back to say forget it. Because what the h.e.l.l am I doing?

Does he really want to make me tea?