felt that smoldering gaze like a flame as he ran it up and down my frame. “Well, hopefully now that we’re in our room, you’ll go grab your Casual Friday pajamas, because I’m not continuing our Westworld marathon with you dressed like you might be called at any moment to race off and host a cocktail party.” He lifted his brows.
“Fine. I’ll change.” I rolled my eyes.
“I’ll order room service. I’m feeling snacky.” He was already headed for the phone. “How do french fries and ice cream sound to you?”
“Like I’m going to gain ten pounds,” I called over my shoulder as I walked into my room. I reached behind my neck, then grumbled. This dress was such a pain in the ass.
“Real men dig the curves,” he called back.
“Since when?” I asked as I walked back in. “Last time I checked, all the women you sleep with are thin enough to wear designer-sample sizes.”
“What?” He paused with the phone halfway to his ear.
“You like thin women. It’s okay to have a type. I’m just saying that you do not, in fact, dig curves unless they’re on your guitar.” I turned around, giving him my back. “Would you please unzip me? I can’t reach.”
His footsteps drew near, and then he swept my hair to the side. “You always smell like coconuts.”
“It’s my shampoo.”
His fingers skimmed the length of my neck. “I like your curves.”
“Nixon,” I whispered, shaking my head. He liked to break the tension with shameless flirting. I understood that was part of who he was, but I was reaching my threshold. Every morning, I wondered if today would be the day I broke and finally jumped him—the day I threw away my chances at being taken seriously in this industry.
His hand was warm on the exposed skin of my back as he steadied the fabric, and then he unzipped my dress, moving so slowly it felt sensual and intimate—like an act between lovers, not roommates.
“Your skin is flawless,” he whispered once the zipper reached the bottom.
“Yours is like a living canvas,” I replied, my chin grazing my shoulder. “Covered in art and stories.” There was a ghost of a caress at the dip in my spine, and I felt more than heard him retreat.
“So that’s a yes to the ice cream?” He cleared his throat.
“Sure. Just as long as it’s—”
“Not strawberry, I know. By the way, I like the green. It matches your eyes.” He dialed room service, and I escaped into my room.
I glanced at my dress in the mirror. If he thought this was green, he needed to get his eyes checked. It only took a second to slip out of the dress and hang it up, but as I passed by the mirror, my cheeks heated.
My underwear was green. Both the lace bra and the matching thong.
I hurried into a set of pajamas but left my bra on under the “I heart Colorado” tank top. When I came out, Nixon already had our current binge-watching show cued up. No devices, no planners, no work whatsoever during TV time—those were his rules. Had to admit, they were growing on me. It was nice to turn my brain off for those hours.
“I’m jumping in the shower,” he said. “Will you sign for room service when it comes?” He yanked his shirt over his head, and my mouth went dry, just like it did every time I got a good look at his torso.
“Yep.” I swore he did that on purpose, like he’d moved from the annoy-Zoe-for-fun game into the torture-Zoe-with-sexual-frustration edition, but I kept a smile on my face as he disappeared into his room. A minute later, I heard the shower start up.
I flipped through my messages while he was in the shower, then answered the door when room service rang.
But it wasn’t room service.
Ben’s eyebrows hit the ceiling as he looked down at me. “When I said loosen up around the office, I didn’t mean pj’s.”
“It’s ten o’clock, and I’m in my hotel room.” I rolled my eyes. “Did you need something?” Reason number five hundred and nineteen I couldn’t act on my craving for Nixon—I never knew who would show up at Nixon’s door…like my actual boss.
He nodded, then walked in the room without being invited. “Sorry. I would have come by earlier, but I was checking out a new band. Tiger Kiss, or something else equally awful. Decent vocalist, though.” His gaze swept over the room, taking in every detail.
“Nixon’s in the shower.”