Page 13 of One Night Only

I tighten my hold and pull until her forehead rests against mine. Her fingers clasp my wrist in a tight grip. And just that little skin-on-skin contact drives me wild. “I will make this a Valentine’s Day you won’t forget. Good?”

“Very good,” she says, her smile full of a trust I’m not sure I deserve.

Not that it stops me from taking it.

To this day, Sophie calls me a strategically greedy bastard, and I’m afraid she might be wholly right. At least in this case.

Because this beautiful girl’s thinking one night and I’m thinking something else entirely.

Chapter Nine

Annika

The sittinglounge is far too big and impossibly elegant, like something out of a magazine spread.

I sit at the edge of the velvety gray armchair, my toes curled against the plush cream rug. Across the low glass coffee table, Dr. Cross sits on the sleek taupe leather sofa, shoulders relaxed in a way that makes me itch. Still in the same white shirt and black trousers.

The entire suite feels both vast and too small, the brass floor lamp casting a soft golden light that makes every shadow seem intimate.

A champagne bucket sits beside a tray of glossy chocolates and pastel macaroons that look almost too pretty to eat. Behind him, the floor-to-ceiling windows frame the storm, lightning flickering across the glass. Like me, it seems the sky itself can’t sit still tonight.

After my impassioned declaration, I hoped Dr. Cross would pin me against the wall or order me to my knees. I have little experience with either, but I’m game. If there’s one man I trustcompletely in any scenario, it’s him. The realization sits like a brick on my chest.

Instead, he took my hand, nudged me into the armchair, fixed me a plate, and said, “Be a good girl and eat up every morsel.”

I do, working my way through the salad and then the risotto, hoping he will reward me. Each bite of the creamy risotto melts on my tongue, adding to the self-indulgent kick I’m on. I shake my head as he points the champagne bottle at me.

My executive dysfunction doesn’t need any sidekicks. Especially tonight, I want to be fully present.

God, even his fingers—long and square-nailed, turn me on. I’m not backing down from this, though my mind’s baffled as to what he finds attractive about me.

I know that I’m conventionally pretty. I have small, sharp features, a slender frame with big breasts, shapely hips, and long legs. Stuff guys really dig, Rahul told me once. That he was cuddling me as if I were his favorite stuffed toy instead of seducing the sexy siren he claimed I was should’ve given me a hint about his interests.

But what does pretty do for a sophisticated man like Dr. Cross?

I keep the doubts to myself, though. No man or woman will find constant self-deprecation attractive. Rebecca, my first and only girlfriend, also my older sister’s best friend, told me that.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a small red cardboard box next to the champagne bucket. A grain of rice sprays outward from my fork, and I pretend like it didn’t happen.

Dr. Cross finishes chewing and licks his lower lip. “The receptionist asked me if I wanted the full Valentine’s Day works when I called. I said yes.”

I squeal as I recognize the package and put my plate down. “I know that game. Not strangers or something like that. I’ve played the friends version.”

His eyes rove my face as he hands me the box. My pulse zigzags as I realize he does that a lot.

Looks at me, into my eyes, and not just at my body. As if he’s hungry for anything I might reveal, accidentally or otherwise.

I pick at the edge of the box, cursing the small piece of circular tape that’s fighting me. The flap tears, and the smooth red cards slip into my hands. Catching his gaze, I shuffle them. “Wanna play?”

He wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Dessert?”

“Later.” Excitement ripples through me. Hopefully, the cards will kick us off into something that I’m unable to.

He bends down to pick up the tray, and a lock of hair falls forward onto his forehead. My fingers itch to push it away. I don’t know why I’m waiting for his permission. It feels like the calm before the storm, and I’m both scared and excited for the unknown.

Shuffling the cards, I wait for him to put away the trays. He’s methodical about it—piling the used forks and spoons on one side, closing the lids, and picking up the stray piece of paper and plastic. Even the grain of rice I dropped.

While he’s neatly arranging them outside the suite, I try to pull the sleek coffee table toward me. The damned thing is so heavy that it barely budges and my arms strain with the effort.

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