Page 6 of Sapphire Storm

Roman shook his head gently. “A dessert made ofmemories?I don’t get it.”

“I assemble something unique using a bouquet of flavors thatreminds them of the moment they fell in love or got engaged, or whatever momentthey choose. But I can’t do it without a meeting or a call. We’ve had troublegetting either of them on the books. Maybe you could help.”

“Rachel won’t be home from New York until Monday. And she’llonly be here for a few days before she heads back.”

“Perhaps she could come in then? Or thegroom,ifshe’s too busy? Scott Bryant, I believe, is his name.”

Studying the cake slices next to them, Roman nodded androlled his eyes. Did the topic of the wedding they were allegedly there to planbore him? Or did the groom’s name leave a bad taste in his mouth? “I’ll seewhat I can do,” he said, then, more aggressively this time, he stuck his fingerin another slice and popped a dollop of icing into his mouth with none of theseductiveness of before.

Ethan turned to the table. “All right. Why don’t I take usthrough the samples one by one? It looks like we’ve got a bunch of forks hereif you’d rather not use the same one. Although, if I’ve done my job, you won’tleave any bite behind. Okay, so right here we have—”

There was a loud thud behind him.

Ethan turned.

Roman had moved to the room’s door and closed it firmly. Nowhe was leaning his back against it. “Sorry,” he said, “I was listening.Promise. Just…open doors make me nervous.”

Well, sexual harassment makes me angry,Ethanthought but didn’t say.

Instead, he went very still. A polite, dashed-off response—evena nod—might send the incorrect message that what Roman had just done was okay.So Ethan studied the man closely, coolly, waiting for him to realize hismistake and open it again.

“This is a really nice room,” he said instead, slowlyscanning the suite. Upon completing his sweep, Roman’s attention focused on theking-sized bed visible beyond a set of double sliding doors that had beenpushed open. By Roman? Or the staff? Ethan couldn’t be sure.

“Yes, well,” Ethan said, “with an event this important tothe hotel, we really do try to pull out all the stops.”

Dammit.He’d meant to reorient things around theprofessional, but instead he’d made it sound like he was willing to hit hisknees to keep Roman Walker happy.

Roman reached behind him and threw the deadbolt on the door.“With a king-sized bed,” he said with a leering grin.

“Mr. Walker, I don’t want to waste your time. Perhaps weshould focus on the cake.”

Roman started toward Ethan, shifting his hips as he went.Was he trying to saunter? Maybe his legs were just sore from a tough workout.

“You a big cake fan, Mr. Blake?” he asked huskily.

At some point during the twenty years since Ethan had comeout of the closet, the wordcakehad become a euphemism for a queerman’s ass. He wasn’t sure when. But he was sure this had always been the casein young Roman’s world, and that’s why the man was throwing the word aroundnow. When he was only a few feet away, Ethan was hit with a blast of the guy’scologne, some pricey, complex Tom Ford scent he’d last smelled while walkingthrough a department store at South Coast Plaza.

Slowly, Roman Walker began to unzip his jacket. When it fellto the carpet at their feet with a softwoosh, Ethan discovered therewas little to no Photoshop at work in the young man’s social media photos.

The fitfluencer and alleged baking show fan stabbed anotherone of the slices with one finger. “See, I’ve got a lot of questions, Mr.Blake. Like you said, it’s a super important event, and so I need to know how thingswill taste in a bunch of different circumstances.” Roman’s dark brown nipplesalready looked delicious. When he dabbed them both with cake icing, Ethanwilled his gaze to remain locked on the man’s gorgeous face.

He failed.

Roman smiled.

Ethan straightened. “Perhaps it would be better for both ofus if you kept your jacket on, Mr. Walker.”

“But I’m hot,” he whined, pouting.

Ethan moved to the room’s door and opened it by severalfeet. “We should let some air in then,” he said with a smile. He pointed to theopen deck door behind Roman. “Cross breezes. They work wonders.”

Spectacularly shirtless, resting his butt against the edgeof the table behind him, there was anger in the man’s expression for the firsttime since Ethan had entered the suite. It widened his eyes, making them lookstrangely familiar. He told himself it was just the residual effect of quietlythirsting for the young man in Jonas’s office earlier.

“Now I’ll get cold.” This time, the young man’s pouty whinehad an edge to it, as if he could sense the imminent collapse of this seduction.

“If the prospect of putting your jacket back on seemsimpossible, I’ll have staff bring up a hotel branded T-shirt for you.” Ethansmiled as politely as he could. “It’ll keep you much warmer than that icing.”

The man was clearly fighting a snarl. Ethan knew thatlook—the split-second anger of someone young and entitled and achinglybeautiful, someone who was so used to men and women throwing themselves at himhe regarded any form of sexual rejection as a personal attack.

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