Page 54 of Drop the Mitts

Grace’s chest caved in. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “André, what kind of room did you book?”

André glanced up, doing a good job playing oblivious if he had been listening. “Two queens. Why?”

Jenna’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t ask?—”

“It’s fine,” Grace repeated. “It’s not a big deal.” She walked toward André. “There isn’t another room available right now and the closest hotel with vacancy is across town. Would it be alright if I crashed on your extra bed?”

André’s lips twitched. “Sixty-forty.”

Grace huffed and grabbed her bag, heading for the elevators.

Chapter

Twenty

André

Holy shit.Holy shit. Holy shit.

André couldn’t turn off the fire hose streaming those two words on repeat as he walked ahead of Grace down the lush corridor of the Fantasyland Hotel, rolling her suitcase beside his. He’d been shocked when she opted to stay in his room instead of finding another hotel.

But this was best case scenario. This wasn’t his fault—she’d forgotten to make the reservation—and he didn’t suggest she join him. He looked like the knight in shining armour in this situation. Unless he did something to screw it up. Which was quite likely considering he was on day three of no cigarettes and wanted to rip off the first ten layers of his skin. Or have sex. A lot of sex. Which would make him want a cigarette, so. Winning.

He tried to keep his hands from shaking as he reached out and hit the elevator button. He had to look cool. Chill. Like he wasn’t thinking about the fact that she’d be brushing her teeth three feet from him while wearing something that was definitelynot a pantsuit. Or that she might leave her shampoo in the shower.

What did she sleep in?He swallowed hard.

“What floor are we on?” Grace stepped into the elevator and looked at the bank of buttons.

“Three.” André cleared his throat. His voice cracked like a fourteen-year-old boy.

Grace hit the button, and the doors closed. The golden lighting reflected off the overly ornate mirrors on all sides. She filled his field of view entirely, and that wasn’t helping the “oh shit” situation.

Grace stood on the other side of the elevator, her arms crossed tightly. Her ponytail was slightly mussed from the long ride, her coat slung over her arm, and her lips pursed like she regretted every life choice that led her to this moment.

André shifted his weight. He was not going to stare. He was not going to?—

“I can see you, you know.” She caught his eyes in the mirror.

He grinned. “Wasn’t hiding it.”

She huffed, turning her head to hide her blush when the elevator doors opened. They entered the hall to the chemical scent of some kind of tropical air freshener.

“I can carry my bag.” Grace put out a hand.

“Wow. Nice of you to offer now that we’re a few metres from the door.”

Her lips twitched. André turned left, following the gold-plated sign, and Grace followed him down the hall.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured as they slowed in front of room 317. “I’m mad at myself, not at you.”

“Very self-aware.” He grinned, then tapped the key to the black box above the handle.

“You don’t have to rub my face in it.”

“Well—” André stopped mid-sentence. He stared at something in front of him, moving to the side as Grace crowded in next to him.

“What the . . . ” Grace made a sound in her throat.

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