Third Life - Noelle Adams Page 0,8

me, but a quick assessment of my condition confirms I didn’t do any damage. Fortunately no one’s in the bathroom to see my clumsiness.

Just a private reminder of who I really am.

And hopefully not a warning of what’s about to come.

The stumble distracts me from my nerves, and I walk to the elevator and ride it up to the twentieth floor in a weird daze, feeling like I’m only halfway inhabiting my own body.

When I reach room 2020, I pause and take a couple of slow breaths. There’s a shuddering deep inside me, not yet reaching my fingers and toes.

Maybe this is stupid.

Maybe this is dangerous.

Maybe I’ve become desperate enough to risk something I’d never have even considered a year ago.

Maybe all of that is true.

I just don’t care.

I knock on the door to preface my arrival before I open the lock with the key card and let myself in.

“Come on in,” Richard calls in his low, pleasant voice. I can’t see him yet because I’m in the short hall that leads past the bathroom and closet before it opens up into the room.

It’s a much bigger room than the one I have. It’s got a full kitchenette and a small dining area and comfortable seating near the door leading out to the balcony.

Also a king-sized bed.

I tear my eyes away from the crisp white bedding and instead focus on Richard, who’s standing near the table. He’s still wearing the suit and tie he was wearing this afternoon. His eyebrows are slightly elevated. The corners of his lips are turned up in a sexy smile. He’s holding an expensive bottle of champagne. There are two glasses on the table.

“How did you get them to bring the champagne up here so quickly?” That’s me. Always focusing on the most unimportant of details. “Or did you already have it up here, assuming you’d find someone to join you?”

“Neither. I picked it up on my way upstairs. I figured we could enjoy it—or else I’d have to drown my sorrows when you didn’t show up after all.”

I laugh at that—the irony in his voice and the knowing twitch of his eyebrows. “Did you really think it was likely you’d be spending the night alone and have to drown your sorrows?”

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t know. I’m usually good at reading women, but you’re...” He shakes his head.

“I’m what?” There’s no way I’m going to let him get away with not finishing the sentence.

“You’re different. And I really don’t know what to expect from you.”

It’s not exactly a compliment, but I’ll take it as one. I’d rather be a challenge than someone he thinks he can wrap around his finger without trying.

“You want some of this?” he asks, gesturing with the bottle toward the two champagne flutes.

“Yes. Thanks. I’d hate to let all your planning go to waste.” I’ve been standing a few feet away from him, my fingers wrapped tightly around the strap of my cute red purse. I have no idea what I should do. Take off my shoes. Try to get comfortable. Attempt some sort of sexy pose.

There’s no way. I’ll feel like a fool if I even try. I do manage to set my purse down on the long, low dresser, glancing in the mirror above it to assure myself my hair is still decent and my neck hasn’t gotten too flushed and blotchy, the way it sometimes does when I get emotional.

I’m genuinely shocked that I look calm and attractive—like I do this kind of thing every day—when I hear a loud popping sound and a surprised exclamation from Richard.

I gasp as I whirl around and see that the bottle has exploded as Richard opened it, spraying champagne all over the surface of the table and Richard’s tailored suit.

My lips part in shock. Then my eyes lift to his face.

He’s frozen. Soaking wet and with the now half-empty bottle still in his hand.

I choke on a burst of amusement, raising a hand to cover my mouth.

His frozen stillness cracks just enough for him to slant annoyed blue eyes in my direction.

I burst into helpless laughter, the shuddering tension I’d been holding inside me spilling out with my hilarity.

By now, Richard has recovered from his surprise. He sets the bottle down with a curl of his lip and murmurs dryly, “Of course you would decide that mocking me is the most appropriate response to this debacle.”

“I’m not mocking you,” I gasp out, losing it even more at his