Too Hard to Resist Page 8

  “Oh no. That really happened to you?”

  “No. I’m sharing for a friend,” I tease.

  She swats me in the chest with her free hand. “Jerk.”

  “Worth it to see you smile.” I’m pretty sure I’d do a lot of humiliating things to see her pretty mouth turn up in the corners.

  The plane gives a slight jolt as it backs away from the terminal. She squeezes my hand, then slips it free. “Thanks.”

  I watch her gather her sweater closer to her chest and shut her eyes, a sort of Zen-like quality coming over her. I’ve got no problem with any kind of motion sickness, but I’m guessing she’s concentrating on not getting sick.

  “I feel you staring,” she says.

  It’s hard not to. She’s achingly appealing even when not feeling her best. “Sorry, but there’s nothing else interesting to look at.”

  “Elliot.”

  “Okay. Okay.” I grab the airline magazine to read. Once we’re in the air, the plane at cruising altitude, I venture to start a conversation. Whenever my family traveled, my siblings and I would play true or false to kill the time. We’d take turns looking stuff up on our mom’s phone or in the flight magazine if flying, and keep score, and I remember all the useless stuff we talked about. “True or false. When hippos are angry, their sweat turns red.”

  “False,” she answers, barely moving a muscle.

  “Correct. Hippos don’t sweat. They secrete a natural substance that turns red-orange. True or False? Pteronophobia is a fear of birds.”

  She cracks a smile. “Is this the kind of travel game you played as a kid or something?”

  “Yes. You have a better one?”

  “No. And I like this one.” Her eyes are still closed, but I can see her thinking. “I’m going to say true based on my limited knowledge of pterodactyls and how scary they were.”

  “Minus one point for Miss Hastings. It’s a fear of being tickled by feathers.”

  Her lashes flutter until I’m hit with brilliant blue. “That cannot be true. Feathers feel good when they tickle your skin.”

  And now I want to run a feather over her skin to see her reaction. “Cross my heart.” I make an X over my chest with my finger. “Another ridiculous fear is cherophobia.”

  “Fear of those very scary angels known as cherubs?”

  I laugh. “Nice try, but that one is a fear of happiness.”

  “What? People are afraid of happiness?” She scoots up to sit taller. “That is completely fatuous.”

  “Tossing out the big words, huh? I like it.”

  “Figured I should keep up with your phobias.”

  “The only difference is I know what fatuous means.” I lean closer so I can whisper in her ear. “It means absurd, and I agree with you.”

  She wiggles her shoulder and tilts her head like my breath tickled her neck. I love that I have that effect on her. “Your head is full of all this useless knowledge, too, huh?”

  I ignore the slight because not many people besides my roommates poke fun at me and I like that she feels comfortable enough to do it. I tap the side of my forehead. “Can’t stop the photographic memory. I listen to a lot of NPR when I’m in the car, too. Where does your extra knowledge come from?”

  “Jeopardy!” She purses her lips together like she wishes she could slip the word back inside her mouth.

  “Is there something wrong with that?” I ask, amused.

  “Yeeesss,” she laments. “How many twenty-four-year-olds do you know who watch that show? I’ll tell you how many. One. Me. Because I live with my parents, and they watch it every night and insist I sit with them, too, so I do, and I learn things, but how boring and awkward is my life that I’m more familiar with a silver-haired, TV-show host than guys my age.” She lets out a breath that is adorable after that long-winded explanation.

  “You haven’t watched it every night the past few weeks. I know for a fact your boss kept you late at work several times.”

  “Yeah, he can be very demanding sometimes.”

  “You have no idea.” My mind immediately dives to the gutter. The things I’d demand from her in the bedroom…minimum two orgasms at a time.

  “Anyway,” she says, darting her eyes to the industrial-carpeted floor, “tell me about the investor we’re meeting and what you’d like me to do.”

  We talk business for the next hour, moving beyond dinner tonight to the coming weeks. Madison has a thirst for knowledge and preparedness that rivals my own. Since we’ve started working together I’ve seen a side to her I had no idea was there. I’m not sure she knew it was, either, her ex having relegated her to planning their wedding and nothing more. Now that she has the opportunity to explore this part of her personality, the last thing I want is to stifle it. She could very well be in my shoes in a couple of years.

  “Crap,” she says, gripping the arms of her seat when a patch of turbulence tosses the plane around. She closes her eyes. Fine lines crease her forehead in concentration. The unstable air doesn’t let up and when we start our descent, Madison turns a few shades paler than normal.

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing.”

  A swallow works its way down her throat. The plane dips. Whatever color was left in her cheeks wanes. She quickly grabs the airsick bag and leans forward with her face in it. I gather her hair and hold it behind her neck. It’s softer than I imagined. Smells heavenly, too, like strawberries and mint. She cuts me a brief, appreciative side-glance.

  The pilot comes on the loudspeaker to let us know things will be bumpy and to keep our seat belts securely fastened. Apparently we’ve flown into a larger storm than the one we left behind. When the plane sinks, then bobs back up, Madison loses the battle.

  I secure her hair with one hand and rub her back with the other. She vomits a few times before sealing the bag and sitting up. The flight attendant brings her a warm cloth to wipe her mouth, in exchange for the bag. “Thank you,” Madison says. I can tell by the sound of her voice she still doesn’t feel well.

  My assumption is confirmed when she grabs the other airsick bag to keep under her chin. “Just in case,” she says to me as she hands the flight attendant the used towel. I lift the armrest between us and wrap my arm around her shoulders. She readily leans closer until her head is resting on my chest.

  “Sorry,” she whispers.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “I’m just gonna stay right here if that’s okay.”

  “It’s more than okay.” She fits under my arm more comfortably than is wise, but I can mentally run through accounts and market analysis to keep my mind off the fit of her soft, warm body against my harder one.

  After the wheels touch down and the plane slows, she lifts away from me. “I am so glad that’s over,” she says.

  “Feeling better?” Her complexion is still sallow even though her mood is brighter.

  “I’m a little nauseated, but once we’re off the plane and I grab a Sprite, I’ll be fine. I’d also like to stop and buy a toothbrush and toothpaste.”

  “We can do that.”

  She looks at me with genuine gratitude. “Thanks for not being grossed out and holding me. It helped.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that makes me unique?”

  “Because it does.” She angles herself against the window, her attention outside. “It’s raining pretty hard.”

  Her change in topic makes me think there is no limit to her ex’s offenses. I watch over her shoulder as we taxi to our gate. Once the plane comes to a complete stop, we unclick our seat belts.

  “You’re different than I thought you’d be,” Madison says softly as we stand to disembark. She passes me to exit single file.

  I’m not sure what that says about how she used to think of me, but it doesn’t matter. We’ve formed a nice partnership, and I plan to nurture it rather than take advantage of it. A good assistant—and good friend—is hard to find so I’m hanging on to this one.

  We get to the
restaurant right on time, with Madison feeling much better. She giggles when her stomach growls loud enough for the both of us to hear.

  “Elliot, it’s good to meet you,” Joaquin says when we reach his table. His handshake is firm but considerably friendly for a man who garners quite a bit of unwanted attention in the local media. Last year he was voted Seattle’s Most Eligible Bachelor or something like that.

  “Likewise. This is my assistant, Madison Hastings.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” he says, taking her hand.

  “Thank you. Nice to meet you.”

  The three of us sit to views of the city. I imagine on a clear evening I’d be able to see for miles. Before we jump into business, Joaquin tells us about Seattle since it’s the first time Madison and I have been. When she brings up the Mariners, he talks for a good fifteen minutes about his favorite team. Luckily, I know a thing or two about baseball and we end up betting on who will make it to the World Series. (My vote is the Dodgers.) The meeting continues to go well despite my annoyance that Joaquin can’t take his eyes off Madison. He’s not being creepy or forward, just appreciating his view. That she doesn’t seem fazed by the attention is immensely satisfying.

  We end the meal on a positive note, Joaquin happy for the personal touch and extending an invitation for us to return for a Mariners game sometime this season.

  The wind is howling and it’s pouring rain when we get inside the Town Car taking us back to the airport. Madison doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her anxiety building over the flight home. I check my phone for the weather. It’s pretty much Storm America on the entire west coast. Damn it. I start to slip my phone back into my pocket when I get an update from the airline. Due to unsafe weather conditions, our flight has been canceled. This is excellent news. I think.

  “They just canceled our flight.”

  “Really?”

  I show her the alert on my phone. I’m not sure what to make of her silence, but I can’t worry about it. I do a fast search for hotels near the airport. If our flight was canceled, that means others are, too, and instead of my main priority being get Madison through our flight home, it’s get Madison a warm bed to sleep in tonight.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Getting us a hotel.” I use my points to make us a reservation for a two-bedroom suite, then let our driver know the change in destination. I’m acting on instinct here. Something Mateo has told me is a good idea when in doubt. The guy is a genius, especially when it comes to relationships. Before he got together with Teague, he worked for the number one radio station in L.A. as the Dating Guy. He gave advice to millions of listeners, so I take his suggestions as gospel.

  I could have gotten two separate hotel rooms, but I don’t want to let Madison out of my sight. Call me domineering, but I feel responsible for her while we’re out of town, and I’m inclined to make this decision. It’s foolish. Trust me, I know. This is the wrong move for a hundred reasons.

  But it’s the right move for one: my sanity.

  Or maybe it’s insanity. That’s probably more accurate.

  “You’re awfully quiet over there,” I say to Madison’s profile, her focus out the window as I shoot off an email to Auggie asking her to reschedule our flight when she gets to work in the morning.

  “I’m feeling a little queasy.”

  Shit. She’s sick over the idea of staying overnight with me. My ego takes a big hit at that. Am I really that hard for her to be around?

  “I’m not great in back seats,” she adds.

  And my confidence tops the meter again. She’s feeling carsick. Not Elliot sick. The ride to dinner was a lot smoother, the rain and traffic lighter. “Hey, Bud,” I say to our driver, whose name really is Bud, “we almost there?”

  “Five minutes away,” he says.

  “Hear that, Mads, only a few more minutes.”

  She nods and adjusts the air conditioning vent. “Could I please get a little air back here?” She closes her eyes when cold air hits her face.

  As soon as Bud pulls up to the hotel entrance, I jump out of the car and then open Madison’s door. She lets out a breath of relief. With my hand on the small of her back, we walk to the registration desk to check-in. “Hi, the last name is Sax.”

  “You didn’t get me my own room?” Madison whispers in my ear when she hears we’ve got a suite.

  “I did. It’s a two bedroom.”

  She lets out another breath, this one of resignation. We look each other in the eyes. “We’re in friend mode now,” I say quietly. The more I get to know her at work, the more I want to be friends with her away from the office, too. She’s…interesting and keeps me engaged. Besides Mateo and Levi, I don’t have a lot of close personal friends and Madison is nice to be around.

  “Okay.”

  I flash her a grin that says we’ve got this.

  I’m not gonna lie. The elevator ride up to our floor is ripe with Fifty Shades tension (what? I saw the trailer on TV), and okay, some not-so-friend-like scenarios play in my mind, but after our meeting with Joaquin, I realized once again we’re a great team. After only a few weeks, we’ve learned to have each other’s backs. When I faltered on some financial information Joaquin asked about, Madison picked the ball up and made a fucking touchdown, reciting the correct numbers from the cash flow reports she’d proofread this morning.

  So, I’m not going to risk the professional magic that is E&M. I’ll just jack off in the shower. It won’t take long knowing she’s right in the next room.

  We both practically jump out of the elevator when the doors slide open. I’ve got to say, Madison is handling this like a trouper. She hasn’t once complained about our situation or having no change of clothes or other overnight necessities. She’s one up on me with a toothbrush and toothpaste, but that’s hardly reason for comfort.

  I push open the door to our suite and allow her entrance first. We flip on lights and check out the common areas. It’s weird not having any luggage to take into a bedroom, so we both stand there, looking at each other with uncertainty. “How are you feeling?” I ask. “I can grab you a Sprite from the vending machine, or order something from room service.”

  “I’m much better, but I wouldn’t mind something from room service.” She plops down on the couch, grabs the leather-bound menu on the coffee table, and uses her free hand to slide off her heels.

  I sit across from her and slip off my sports coat, grateful the doubt from a minute ago is gone.

  “Weirdly, I’m kind of hungry for something sweet,” she says, flipping through pages.

  I bet you taste sweet.

  Did I not give myself a mental talking to just five minutes ago? Jesus.

  She could taste like the best cheesecake ever and you are not getting a taste, buddy. She’s in the friends-and-coworkers zone and that zone is banned from your pleasure.

  “Will you share a piece of cheesecake with me?”

  She’s killing me. “That’s like asking a bear if he’ll share some honey.”

  She looks up from the menu. “Cheesecake it is then. Coffee sound good, too?” She leans over to pick up the telephone on the side table.

  “Sure.” At this point, I’ll be up all night trying not to think about her, so I may as well relax with some caffeine.

  “It should be here in fifteen minutes,” she says, hanging up the phone and getting to her feet. I notice her toes are painted red. “Do you want to pick a bedroom? I need to use the bathroom.”

  “Your choice.”

  “Okay.” She dangles her shoes from her fingers and tucks her purse against her side. “I’ll be back out in a few.”

  I busy myself on my phone, checking sports scores and CNN. When Madison returns she’s wearing one of the hotel’s plush white robes. The material falls below her knees, so I have no idea if she’s wearing anything underneath it.

  Which means I’m left to wonder.

  And fantasize about eating cheesecake off her stomach.

 
; Think she’d let me?

  Chapter Nine

  Madison

  Elliot’s eyes rake over my body like I’m wearing lingerie, not a thick robe that hides almost every inch of my skin. When he looks at me like that, it’s extremely hard to pretend being near him is easy. I’m not sure he realizes the effect he has on me, or even if his focus makes me special. Maybe I’m one of a hundred girls dressed like this he’d find attractive.

  The last time I wore this kind of fluffy robe I was with Henry. We’d flown to New York for a friends’ wedding. I pictured it being a romantic weekend getaway, but he barely noticed me. A couple of hours before the ceremony, I’d showered, shaved my legs, put strawberry-scented lotion on, and sauntered out of the bathroom ready to drop the thick terry cover-up to the floor and show him the tiny landing strip my hairdresser had convinced me to get, only to find him so engrossed in his phone he didn’t spare me a glance or flirty word. I’d stood there for five solid minutes. No joke.

  So the appreciation in Elliot’s piercing blue eyes is nice. It’s what I was hoping for when I decided to change out of my work clothes. My skirt was tight and my blouse reminded me of throwing up on the airplane, and with nothing else to change into, I wanted to get comfortable. Do I wish I was bold enough to drop the robe and see what Elliot would do next? Yes. But our working relationship prohibits any kind of physical intimacy.

  Look, but don’t touch, our motto.

  And by look, I don’t mean his tight butt or athlete’s shoulders or cheekbones that make my legs feel useless. Because those attributes are serious grounds for throwing caution aside and welcoming trouble.

  I’ve never been in that kind of trouble. Sexy will-I-regret-it-in-the-morning-my-body-is-on-fire-and-only-you-can-put-it-out-trouble. Actually, the fire part happened the other night in my car, but let’s not go there.

  I flop down on the couch across from him, prepared to ignore all his good qualities. That he’s also charming, caring, and well mannered is a real pain in the butt. He held my hair for me while I threw up, for gosh sakes. Then folded an arm around me. And it helped. With the side of my head pressed to his chest, I concentrated on the beat of his heart instead of the churning in my stomach. If I were asked to send a report to his mom, he’d get an A-plus.