Page 9 of One Weekend in Quebec City

Drinks were followed by dinner at the hotel.By the timewe said goodnight and headed back to our respective rooms, thankfully on opposite ends and different floors, I couldn’t decide if the stories about him were true.

He flirted but subtly. He refused to discuss business or his personal life, insisting we kept the dialogue light and neutral for the evening. Instead, we talked about world events, a little Canadian versus American politics, andthe beauty of this city.

He’s not what I expected. He’s… personable. Friendly. Almost a little shy. I didn’t get playboy vibes at all. Casual elegance, yes. Educated and knowledgeable, for sure. And obviously, the man has money. The tailored suit he’s wearing today probably costs more than I make in a month, and he didn’t blink an eye when he orderedan extremely expensive bottle of wine last night.

But he also didn’t glance at a single woman all evening. Not one. Well, one, me, but plenty of beautiful women, more his style and speed, passed our table. He didn’t turn his head in their direction once. And more than a couple of them tried to win his attention.

But it was the first night and only a few hours. I’m sure his true colors will appear once he’s surrounded by gorgeous models and in his element.

That didn’t stop him from playing the starring role in my dreams, though. I even woke deep in the night, the sheets tangled around my legs, my heart thumping, my breath heaving, one hand on my breast, the other between my thighs.

I shift in the cushioned armchair; thankful I insisted on a seat off to the side rather than sit at the large table with his team. I don’t want to be underfoot, and with only a couple of days, I only have time for a brief glimpse into one aspect of his day-to-day operation. When Spencer offered me a seat directly across from him, my heart skipped a beat as I quickly waved off the gesture. Every nerve in my body vibrated from such a simple look that I suggested taking up minimal space so I could observe from a safe distance.

Sitting that close? Staring at his mouth all day. Smelling that smoky cologne? Professional journalists should be able to do that and not completely lose themselves. Well, maybe. But not me, not today.

Not wanting to cause any distraction by tapping on keys, I even left my laptop in the room and opted instead for a pen and my trusty notebook. I try to appear engrossed in work, the pen scratching across the paper as I make notes. Useless scribbles, actually. Even a few doodles. Anything to avoid looking directly at him, which, of course, means I am looking at him. Right now.

Don’t stare.

It may appear to anyone, except those who know me best, that I’m completely enraptured with his choice of words. In reality, my entire brain is racing a million miles a minute while I gawk at him and not the notes in my lap.

Even though his assistant’s email said the weekend would be casual, he’s anything but. Today’s black suit is impeccable, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and tapering to his trim waist. The crisp white shirt beneath provides a tantalizing contrast to his subtly tanned skin, and the perfectly knotted tie adds a touch of formality that’s both intimidating and alluring. This is an entirely different beast than the laid-back, if still wealthy-looking, billionaire who had me melting in my chair with the insane desire to run my fingers down his muscled thighs covered in soft-looking jeans only last night. And those tiny dark upper chest hairs that were peeking out from between the edges of his unbuttoned pin-striped shirt—I figuratively bit down on my knuckle.

I’d been prepared to meet a version of the man I’d seen in countless tabloids—the arrogant, entitled flirt. Someone used to getting whatever he wants, with no thought to anything, or anybody else. But here he is, leading a surprisingly collaborative discussion. He includes every person and requests their opinion, actively engaging the entire team. And when they share their thoughts and recommendations, they don’t act like they fear the man but genuinely have affection and respect for him. They don’t toss out ideas, assuming he’ll simply do what he wants. He actually listens and considers them. In fact, most of the discussion so far has been Spencer leaning into suggestions from those around the table.

They must be crushing on him hard.

Or is it just me?

The thought pops into my mind, and at once, a smile appears. I should be ashamed. Women hate it when men lust after them like I’m drooling over this man. But he doesn’t need to know. What happens in my brain stays in my brain. It can be fodder for tonight.

I need to remember that I’m here to work. Spencer Hollis is just a stepping stone in my career. Sure, I hope that my future in celebrity journalism will change for the better with his help. He’s a means to an end. A story. That’s it. No matter how much my traitorous body and spicy fantasies seem to disagree. Or how my pulse quickens every time he catches my eye. How my breath hitches when he says my name with that subtle, almost velvety drawl that makes me think of warm sand under my back on the beach, his hot, sweaty body over mine, the sun beating over us as he peppers kisses down…

“Shelby?”

Damn it.

I snap my head up, my cheeks flooding with heat. Spencer is standing rightin front ofme, his expression a mixture of amusement and… concern?

My mouth has gone drier than any desert. My body is tingling all over. Oh God, this is so embarrassing.

“Shelby?”

“Um… yes?”My voicecomes out asa pathetic squeak, and I mentally curse my lack of composure.Fuck. I’m a professional journalist, not some swooning teenager.

His large body is blocking my view of the rest of the room and their view of me. Thank God. His lips twitch, fighting back a smile, I’m sure.

This is the man I was expecting.

Regardless, the heat in my cheeks intensifies. He leans closer, andhis scent—that yummy, intoxicating blend of something woodsy and something… all Spencer Hollis—wraps around me like a warm hug. A delicious, dangerous hug that threatens to suffocate what little professionalism I have left.

“I was just wondering if you have any questions,”he says, his voice a low murmur meant only for me.

Questions? About what? The meeting? The models? The way his perfectly tailored suit makes my fingers itch to…

I clear my throat, desperately trying to gather my scattered thoughts.

“Actually, yes. I was curious about the…”My mind grasps for something, anything, intelligent to say. “…the criteria for choosing the cover model. Beyond the obvious, of course.”

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