must read the horror on my face because he answers my unspoken question.
“Don’t worry,” Ross says as he gets out of bed and walks easily and comfortably across the room. I can’t stop my eyes from following him. “I was a gentleman, and even though you showed me quite an eyeful . . . we didn’t have sex.”
That’s good. Really good, but there’s a hint of disappointment coursing through me too.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him go over to a door, disappearing into what looks like a pretty big walk-in closet before coming out in a pair of workout shorts and a tank top that, while hiding a little more of his skin, still has the temperature in my borrowed robe a few degrees this side of warm.
I’m not sure if I’m happy or upset about that.
Physically, I’ve wanted to fuck Ross since about the time I knew what sex was. And then he basically tortured me through middle and high school, squashing any crush I’d had on him. Well, most of it, anyway.
What’s that saying? He’s pretty packaging on an ugly inside. Okay, there’s nothing remotely ugly about Ross, except how he can zing me good and embarrass the fuck out of me, and somehow, I still enjoy it and live for that bright smile of his that marks his victory over me. But that speaks more to my weirdness, probably, not his.
He’s always seen me as an annoying little sister, so emotionally, I’d rather go celibate the rest of my life than sleep with Ross Andrews.
And that’s that. Problem, meet solution.
I’m just going to pretend last night never happened. And he’s going to do the same.
“Come on,” Ross says, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door. “We can talk over some breakfast. You’ve probably got a hangover the size of Australia brewing inside your head, and I can see the hamster spinning in his wheel with the lightning-fast speed of your thoughts crossing your face.”
I nod slowly, following a barefoot Ross out of the bedroom and down a hallway. As he walks, he calls out, “Geoffrey, dim the windows to twenty percent, please.”
Oh, no! Is there someone here? A witness to my embarrassment this morning?
Before I can ask if Ross has a butler or something, a masculine computer voice replies, “Of course, Mr. Andrews. Shall I start coffee?”
“Full pot,” Ross says before glancing back over his shoulder with a huge grin. “Geoffrey's the electronic assistant. Basically, Alexa, but a thousand percent better.”
“A thousand . . . percent?” The snarky challenge rolls off my tongue unbidden.
“Give or take a few hundred percent,” Ross quips back, unperturbed at continuing our usual banter in such a weird situation.
I’m at a loss for words as I pad into the main room of the penthouse. It’s huge, semicircular, and slightly tech-modern, with lots of blacks and brushed steel that strike me as Ross’s natural style. Not my personal choices . . . but it fits him.
The curved exterior wall is dominated by huge, two-story-tall windows that are tinted to a dark smoke right now, and the interior designer part of me loves it. High-tech windows that can change at a voice command? Talk about eliminating the need for drapes! I’ve heard of this technology, even saw it at a conference once, but I haven’t had a client who wanted something that high-tech yet. Usually, my clients want their estates updated, like Ms. Montgomery, so high-rise style is out of my wheelhouse, and even hungover, I’m tempted to play with it to see what all Geoffrey and those windows can do.
“When did you get the Starship Enterprise as your penthouse?” I weakly joke as he leads me over to the far side of the room to a high-tech chef’s kitchen. While you couldn’t put a restaurant in here, it’s fully equipped, everything in tasteful matte dark colors and black marble countertops. Ross opens the built-in fridge and pulls out a blender cup, swirling the contents before studying it carefully.
“Cover your ears,” he says right before slapping the cup on a blender base and pulsing it a few seconds. Even with my hands over my ears, it’s painfully loud, but the shock of it is helping to clear my head. When it’s ready, he pulls out a huge glass from a cabinet and pours me a light green smoothie. “Here. My patented hangover cure, just this side of hair of the dog in terms of effectiveness. Drink up.”
He eyes me, daring