Hugo’s mouth remains open. He looks shocked beyond words.
“Not a sip of wine all evening,” Sutton says in that drawl. “Even though I brought the Chablis because she loves it.”
“And she got emotional over the horse story,” I add. “Really, for someone who is famous for being able to read women, you completely missed this one.”
“We never have perspective about the people closest to us,” Sutton says, watching the embracing couple with satisfaction.
Hugo murmurs in French, sounding breathless and adrift. “Un enfant?”
“Are you angry?” Bea whispers.
She might be worried, but I can already see the stirrings of hope inside him. They may not have talked about children, but Hugo is committed to her fully. And a family is exactly what he needs to feel grounded in this life. He kisses her with a passion so raw and charmless it looks like a different man, one without an ounce of finesse. There’s only love.
“We should go,” I whisper to Sutton, who has already pushed back his chair. We make our exit with discreet haste, not a second too soon judging from the way dishes crash as the two move their passion to the top of the dining table.
I’m laughing with breathless anticipation as I collapse against the mirrored walls of the elevator. “She’s going to have a baby! Oh my God, we should make them name it Harper if it’s a girl or Sutton if it’s a boy. We were there when she told him.”
He does this silent huff of amusement. “Sutton is too rough of a name for any child of theirs. Maybe they can name him Harper, even if it’s a boy. It works for both.”
“I like that plan,” I say, grinning because I can’t seem to stop. I blame the wine that I was forced to drink since Bea didn’t have any tonight. My heart beats fast and light, effervescent as a Chardonnay.
The elevator opens to the bottom floor, and I step out—my smile giving way to nerves. There are a hundred people milling around the lobby, but I might as well be alone with Sutton. The way he looks at me, it’s like I’m the only woman in the hotel.
A couple in a hurry jostle me, and Sutton moves to block me with his body. It’s only a small pain, the bustle from a crowd, but he takes it from me. There’s a gentleman underneath all that laconic Southern charm, but it’s different from Christopher. He doesn’t claim to know better than me. He only wants to shield me from any pain. In some ways it’s a subtle distinction, but in another way they’re worlds apart.
“Invite me upstairs,” Sutton says, his voice low and private.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” The words come out unsteady, my body humming with anticipation as if I’ve already agreed to whatever happens next.
“A goodnight kiss,” he says. “That was the deal.”
My lips feel ultrasensitive, even thinking about kissing him. “You didn’t really finish the story. We were interrupted.”
“That’s why you’re going to invite me to your room. Where it’s private.”
A catch in my breath. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
He leans close, pressing me into a corner behind the penthouse’s private elevator. The only people near us are passing by, on their way to a restaurant or a theater. “I’ve been poor longer than I’ve been rich, but you know one thing that stays the same?”
Sex, my mind supplies helpfully. Sex is the same. “No.”
“People underestimate you because you’re different, that’s what stays the same. The way you looked at me and heard my accent and figured you could use me to get to Christopher.”
“I d-didn’t think—”
“Now look at you, so close there’s only linen and silk between us, your cheeks all rosy, your eyes wide. You would let me do anything to you with people a few feet away, but I’m not going to touch you.”
A sense of loss rushes through me, like a hollow opened up beneath an ocean. I may not have thought I was underestimating him, but clearly I had. “Come upstairs.”
Blue eyes flash with triumph. “Lead the way.”
Lead the way, because this is under my control. It’s up to me whether Sutton comes upstairs to my room, whether I use the key card to let us both inside, whether he wakes beside me in the morning. How would his body look, sated and tangled in white rumpled sheets? His skin would be leather-rough everywhere, exposed to the elements from a young age.
Or would he still be velvet and smooth in some places?
We take a regular elevator up to my floor, both of us silent in front of an older couple returning after an early night. The only place we touch is his palm at the small of my back—such an innocent place, that. There shouldn’t be a fire burning, spreading outward, down to my ass and between my legs. His gentle pressure shouldn’t make me think of other ways he could hold me.
Even when the older couple steps out, we don’t move from our assigned spots. My feet have become part of the floor, too heavy to move. He’s immobile beside me.