Raise the Heat: A Forbidden Office Romance (Beastly Bosses) Page 7

  His face transforms into a beaming grin and the sight of the dimple he shares with Edward gets my heart racing. “That’s more like it,” he says approvingly.

  I roll my eyes and focus my attention on my phone screen. I need to find something to distract me from the fluttering sensation in my belly. Was he trying to goad me into standing up for myself?

  I ponder this question in silence for a while until he seems to tire of the quietude and reaches over to turn on the stereo. But as soon as he taps the power button on the touchscreen, the truck is filled with loud big band music. He immediately turns the volume down as Perry Como begins singing “Papa Loves Mambo.”

  I reach for the touchscreen to try another one of the satellite radio presets, but Ethan grabs my hand to stop me.

  “What are you doing? This is one of my favorite songs,” he says as he shuts his eyes and sings along to the punchy tune.

  I can barely hear him over the music and the pounding of my heart as I stare at my hand clutched in his. I want to pull my hand away, but I also don’t. And watching him put his heart and soul into his recital makes me not want to interrupt him. How can my body react to him so favorably when I’m sickened by the thought of his twin touching me?

  Finally, Ethan opens his eyes and realizes he’s still holding my hand. Hanging on for perhaps a second too long, he eventually lets go and flashes me a sly smile that sets my heart racing again.

  “You don’t like Perry Como?” he asks innocently, as if he has no clue the effect he had on me with the hand-holding and his little performance.

  “That’s not really my generation of music.”

  “And you think it’s mine? How old do you think I—” He stops himself as he seems to remember I already know his birthday. “Well, that’s awkward,” he says, and I’m grateful for his attempt to ease the tension brought on by his almost-slip-up.

  But the tension creeps back again, becoming heavier the longer we go without speaking, as it only serves to draw more attention to the topic we’re avoiding.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened with Edward?” he asks softly, almost mumbling as if he’s hoping I don’t hear him.

  I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

  He chuckles. “Trust me. I won’t fight you on that.”

  We smile at each other and refrain from speaking for a while as we let Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra do the talking for us. Every once in a while, Ethan will chime in to tell me how much he loves a certain song. Even more seldomly, I will sing along to one of the few songs I recognize. Eventually, the traffic clears up and we find ourselves moving at a brisk-for-I-95 forty miles per hour.

  “Do you think we’ll still make it?” Ethan asks, glancing at the phone clutched in my hand.

  I check Google Maps and it now says we will arrive at Hank’s eight minutes after they close. “It’s going to be close. You might want to speed up.”

  He motions to the cars in front of us.

  “Right,” I say, acknowledging the mildly congested flow of traffic. “Sor—” I stop myself before I once again apologize unnecessarily.

  He doesn’t look at me, but the sneaky smile on his face tells me he knows exactly what I was about to say. And he knows he’s the reason I stopped myself.

  He may claim he doesn’t want to tell me what to do, but that’s only because he doesn’t have to. The man clearly has a way of getting women to do things his way without saying a single word.

  We arrive at Henry’s Restaurant Supply seventeen minutes after closing, and the parking lot is completely empty. Hank didn’t bother hanging around in case I showed up. Not that I blame him. This dreary warehouse district in Poughkeepsie is not exactly a picturesque place to relax and unwind while you wait around for a person you barely know.

  I knew this would happen when Hank didn’t answer the call I made to him a few minutes before closing. He probably knew I was going to tell him I was running late, and he didn’t want to have wait for us.

  Perhaps, if I were closer with Hank, he would have held that cabinet for me until tomorrow. Now, we’re stuck a ninety-minute-drive away from Manhattan—easily a couple hours if we have to head back now during weekender traffic—and we have nothing to show for it. My desire to apologize for not convincing Hank to hold the cabinet for us is strong, but I suppress the urge.

  “I guess we’ll have to come back tomorrow,” I say, walking away from the locked entrance doors of Henry’s Restaurant Supply as I make my way toward the truck.

  Ethan is still standing in front of the store as he appears to be considering something. Then, he turns to me, tilting his head as he says, “Fancy a coffee? Or a dram of whiskey?”

  “A dram of whiskey?” I reply. “You carry whiskey everywhere you go?”

  “Actually, I keep a case of Scotch in the boot of my car, to give to clients. And I noticed the bottle I gave Tino is in the back seat of the truck, unopened. What do you say?”

  The more I get to know him, the more differences I see between Ethan and Edward.

  I smile as I reach for the passenger door handle. “I should probably eat first.”

  “Of course. I’m starving,” he says with far too much enthusiasm for the kind of food we will probably find in Poughkeepsie. “What’s your favorite dessert?” he asks as he turns on the engine.

  I laugh at this. “Are we only getting dessert? I thought you were starving?”

  “I find the best indicator of a good restaurant is the quality of the dessert and the cocktails. Most restaurants think they can skimp on those if their food is good enough. Only the best chefs will insist that the dessert and cocktails match the quality of the food. So, tell me, what’s your favorite dessert?”

  I can’t help but be taken aback by his logic in choosing a restaurant. Not because it’s convoluted. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s exactly the kind of reasoning I would use to choose a place to eat.

  “It used to be opera cake,” I reply, thinking of how Judy mentioned this yesterday, and how Ethan may have read that in her binder notes. “Now, it’s Napoleon framboise.”

  “Framboise,” he says, drawing out the second syllable and leaning toward me as he breathes in deeply through his nose, almost as if he’s trying to inhale me.

  “What? Does my French stink that bad?”

  He flashes me a delectable smile. “It’s quite good, actually.”

  Despite his compliment, I can’t help but be reminded that I’ll need to improve my French if I’m going to accept the internship at Le Cordon Bleu. I haven’t lived in Paris since culinary school. I’m definitely more than a bit rusty.

  Despite the fear of losing my promotion, I find myself wanting to tell Ethan about the internship. But I can’t.

  “What do you think about me…teaching cooking?”

  He scrunches up his eyebrows and shakes his head as if I’ve asked a silly question. “I think those who can’t do teach, and that does not apply to you.”

  “That’s awfully judgmental,” I shoot back. “Besides, how do you know I can cook? You haven’t seen me in the kitchen.”

  Then, I look away awkwardly as I remember Edward has probably told him about me.

  “We should probably just get some fast-food, so we can head back soon,” I say, reaching over my shoulder for the seat belt.

  “Head back?” he says with some confusion. “I’m not going back to Manhattan only to make that horrendous drive back tomorrow morning.”

  My jaw drops. “I’m not spending the night with you.”

  He laughs at this. “I saw a hotel close to where we exited the parkway. We can get separate rooms.”

  I stare at him as the fury I felt a moment ago melts into a very subtle—okay, maybe not so subtle—disappointment. “Good.”

  He watches me with a smile as I struggle to get the seat belt buckled due to my shaky hands. “Relax, Alice. I shall be on my best behavior. I promise not to arrive at your hotel room door with a bottle of whiskey tonight.”


  I roll my eyes on the outside, but on the inside my heart is mamboing to the beat of Perry Como.

  Chapter 8

  ETHAN

  “I’m very sorry, sir, but we’re hosting a large self-improvement seminar this weekend. We are totally booked. We only have one room available, and that’s only because someone just canceled a few minutes ago. Would you like me to reserve the room for you?”

  I glance at Alice then back to the young gentleman behind the Poughkeepsie Grand Hotel reception desk. “Are there any other hotels nearby with rooms available?”

  The man looks at me as if I’m a stupid English tourist who has no idea how hotel booking systems work. “I don’t know, sir. You’d have to contact them and ask. But I suspect other hotels will be nearly or fully booked, as well. The annual Tony Aarons ‘Destiny Known’ seminar is a pretty big event in Poughkeepsie.”

  Alice rolls her eyes and steps forward, resting her arms on the chest-high granite countertop. “We’ll take the room,” she declares, then turns to me. “We’ll sleep in separate beds. You don’t snore, do you?”

  A twinge of jealousy prods me as I wonder whether she’s asking me this because Edward snores. My brother and I haven’t shared a bedroom since we were six years old, so I have no idea if he’s a noisy sleeper. But that doesn’t stop my mind from coming to this conclusion.

  Unlike before, Alice doesn’t consider the correlation between her question and its implications. I find this disappointing. It’s not that I expect her to anticipate my feelings about her and Edward every time she speaks. It’s disappointing because it makes me wonder if I read too much into her avoiding the topic of Edward earlier.

  My mobile vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out immediately, thinking it will probably be Tino, wondering where I am and when he can expect me to return his truck. But when I see my brother’s name again, I swiftly tap the button to reject the call and slide the phone into my pocket.

  I look down at Alice, searching for any indication she saw Edward’s name on my screen, but it doesn’t appear so. “I’ve been told I do not snore, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

  She shrugs and turns back to the desk clerk. “We’ll take the room.”

  The man seems uncomfortable, his eyes sketchily flitting back and forth between Alice and me as he runs my credit card and generates our card keys. Placing the keys in a tiny envelope with the room number written on it, he places them on the counter and points to our right.

  “The elevator vestibule is around the corner on the left. The restaurant and bar are open until ten p.m. Complimentary breakfast is served in the restaurant from six a.m. to nine a.m., with grab-and-go coffee and snacks available in the lobby all day—in case you want to sleep in,” he says, glancing at me for some reason. “The Wi-Fi password is written on the envelope. If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call the front desk. We hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  I slide the room keys off the counter and head toward the elevators. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to another hotel?” I ask, looking around at the corporate-style furnishings and chintzy, gold-pinstriped wallpaper.

  Alice presses the button to call the elevator. “Truthfully, I’m exhausted by this emotional roller coaster of a day. I just want to put something in my stomach and go to sleep. Do you mind if we eat in the hotel restaurant? I know they probably only serve food service pre-baked cheesecakes and brownies, but it’s better than starving.”

  I wait for her to enter the elevator first. “You’ll find when it comes to food, I’m not as pretentious as you’d expect,” I reply, punching the button for the fourth floor.

  She seems to relax at the sound of this. “Good. I’m easy, too.” She seems to realize what she said and shakes her head at the smile on my face. “Not easy when it comes to that.”

  “Not easy when it comes to many things, apparently.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, cursing myself for speaking without thinking.

  The doors slide open, and we spill out onto the fourth floor corridor.

  “Don’t be scared. Say what you’re thinking?” she prods me.

  My mobile vibrates again, and I reach into my pocket, grateful for the distraction. But at the sight of Edward’s name, I immediately send the call to voicemail and tuck the phone away again. I’m going to have to change his name in my address book if I want to prevent the appearance of impropriety by constantly rejecting phone calls in Alice’s presence.

  I imagine that, by now, she must be a wee bit curious to know why I’m not answering. She may refrain from asking about it a few more times, so as not to appear insecure, but eventually she will ask. And I don’t mind lying to Edward, but the thought of lying to Alice puts my teeth on edge.

  “I’ll have to ring Tino later and tell him I’ll have his truck back by tomorrow,” I say, careful not to say it’s Tino who’s been calling me, though the implication is enough to make me queasy.

  I slide the card key into the slot a few times before the red light turns green, and the lock disengages. But as soon as we enter the room, I realize why the front desk clerk seemed uncomfortable while he was running my credit card. He charged me for a room with only one king-sized bed.

  Alice lets out a few choice curse words. “That little weasel,” she says, snatching up the handset on the phone next to the bed. “You gave us a room with one bed! You said it had two beds!” she shouts.

  My eyes widen and I can’t help but feel turned on by her fieriness.

  The pointed anger in her features slackens into a kind of despair. “But you did. I heard you—” She’s silent for a while, looking jolly defeated, then the fury returns as she shakes her head. “Fine. We will!”

  I take a cautionary step back as she slams the handset down. “What did he say?” I ask tentatively.

  She rounds on me and I take another step back. “He said I’m the one who said the room had two beds. He never confirmed it. And if we want a refund, we’ll have to take it up with the hotel manager who arrives at eight p.m.”

  I step forward and place a hand on her shoulder as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “Hey, it’s not the end of the world. I can sleep on the floor.”

  She peers up at me looking utterly defeated. “I can’t make you sleep on the floor when you paid for the room. At least let me pay you back for the room, so I don’t feel guilty.”

  I chuckle softly at her offer. “You’re not giving me a single penny.”

  She glances sideways at my hand on her shoulder, then she swallows hard as she looks up at me again. “We can share the bed. As long as you keep your hands to yourself. I mean, the bed is huge. You should have no problem staying on your side, right?”

  I shake my head as I lower my hand. “I really don’t mind sleeping on the floor.”

  She looks slightly confused and possibly a tiny bit offended now. “Are you sure?” she asks, and I definitely hear a note of disappointment in her voice. “I really don’t mind sharing the bed.”

  This is a pivotal moment. How I choose to handle this predicament has the power to change everything between us.

  I glance at the king-sized bed, then back at her. She’s my employee. I should insist on sleeping on the floor. It’s improper for me to waver even the slightest bit on this decision.

  Yet, here I am, clearly wobbling like a poorly set jelly. I reckon that’s a proper image for what my insides feel like. The thought of sleeping in the same bed with Alice and not being able to have my way with her sounds like some form of extreme punishment.

  And I’m no masochist.

  “If you insist,” I reply in a somewhat dismissive tone. “I don’t want to risk you apologizing to me in the morning for making me sleep on the floor.”

  She lands a hard push in the center of my chest and strides past me toward the door, leaving me in a cloud of that Alice framboise fragrance I can’t seem to get enough of. “Can we eat now?”

&n
bsp; I savor the scent for a moment, allowing myself to imagine eating at a restaurant closer to our room. “Yes, love.”

  The server who takes our order makes no attempt to disguise her appreciation of me, stealing glances at my tattoos and my face every few seconds as Alice rattles off her order. She’s a good-looking blonde in her early twenties, but I have no desire to encourage her behavior. When Alice finishes and the server doesn’t acknowledge her, I find myself incapable of hiding my annoyance.

  “Did you get all that?” I ask the woman, and she smiles.

  As my words click into place in her mind, she turns back to Alice. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You want the steak frites. But what was that last part?”

  I respond before Alice can. “She wants the steak frites, medium-rare, with a side of melted butter,” I say, grabbing Alice’s hand to give the server the clear message that she can cease with the blatant flirting.

  Alice yanks her hand out of mine. “What are you doing?”

  The woman looks both confused and amused.

  “That will be all,” I say to the server, flashing her a look when she opens her mouth to say something else.

  The woman rolls her eyes. “Your food will be out shortly.”

  When the server is out of ear-shot, Alice rounds on me. “What was that? Do I look like I need you to speak for me?”

  I stare at her in confusion. “I was trying not to let that server disrespect you.”

  “Disrespect me? How? By forgetting my order because she’s ogling you? Do you think I care if she wants to chomp on your steak?”

  I scrunch my nose at the mental image her words have conjured up. “I rather prefer not having my meat chomped on, thank you.”

  “You know what I mean,” she says, unfolding her paper napkin and placing it in her lap.

  My mind is scrambling for a response to this amusingly graphic conversation when my mobile buzzes again.