“Alec.” I turn to smile at him, hiding the way my chest immediately tightens at this tonal shift. “You don’t have to say it. You live in London. I’m in LA. I have no expectation of seeing you again.”
“No, no. Well, yes, that is—unfortunately—probably true, but I meant something else.” He gazes down at me. “This will sound weird, and you’ll understand it later, I think, but I mean it when I agree this was exactly what I needed. And I’m just—” He swallows, neck flushing. It’s weird to see him stumble over words. “I’m really happy to be here with you. Exactly how it was last night. Whatever happens after this, I want you to promise to remember that. Okay?”
Even a cold brick would realize that Alec Kim is saying something without saying it, but it’s so carefully veiled I don’t know how to probe deeper. He doesn’t give me a chance, either, because he cups my jaw, offering up a kiss that is both sweet and passionate, gently coaxing me back onto the pillow.
“I wish we had time,” he says against my mouth, and I know exactly what he means.
But we don’t.
He stares down at me, exhaling, and then with a quiet groan pushes up and turns to sit at the edge of the bed. I want to roll over and wrap my arms around him because, oddly, it seems like he needs a hug, but it doesn’t feel like something we’d do at sunrise. So I sit there staring at his back while he stares down at the floor. All of the ease and comfort of last night have started to fade, and I quietly hate it.
We both startle when the room phone rings, and then Alec lets out a mumbled “Oh” of recollection. Leaning over, he answers it with an instinctive “Yeoboseyo,” and then, “Hello… Yes, thank you. Let’s say fifteen. Thank you.”
He hangs up and looks over his shoulder at me. “If you’d like, you can use the restroom right there to get ready.” He lifts his chin to indicate where he means. “The concierge is bringing something up for me and will be here in about fifteen minutes. I’ll shower in the other restroom.”
The outside world is pressing back in, making us both adopt a level of formality that feels completely unnatural. Thanking him, I hold the sheet to my chest and avert my eyes as he stands fully naked, finding his clothes on the floor and carrying them out into the living room with him. With a towel around his waist, he returns just as I’m getting up, bringing me my suitcase, bra, and dress. I want to kiss him in thanks; it’s what every cell in my body is leaning forward to do, but he just gives a polite nod and ducks back out. In only a few seconds, I hear another door close farther out in the suite and the sound of the shower turning on.
Staring down at my open suitcase on the bed, I decide the dress is still the cleanest thing to wear, and then debate the underwear situation. I could wash a pair in the sink and wear them—damp—on the plane. I could go without. I don’t like either of these choices. This is a problem for post-shower Georgia. But after rinsing off quickly and wrapping myself up in one of the hotel’s lush, thick towels, I hear a quiet knock land on the bathroom door. I open it, letting Alec in.
He’s clean and dressed in a black T-shirt, black jeans, hair neatly combed, and with soft stubble on his chin. Instantly, my libido stands up, waving the white flag. He misses my ogling gaze because he’s staring at where my towel is tucked closed between my breasts. A drop of water runs down my neck and he looks like he’s considering licking it. My ego logs this moment for the mental scrapbook.
“Do you know what a thirst trap is?” I ask him.
He jerks his attention up to my face and I think takes a second to translate this in his head. “I’m thirty-three, not eighty. Yes, I do.”
I point at his chest. “Lethal.”
He laughs. “Is that right?”
My attention is caught on what he’s holding in his hand. It’s a small black shopping bag. Looks expensive. “What’s that?”
Remembering it, he holds it out to me, dangling it on a long finger. “Oh. For you.”
“You got me a present?” And then I amend: “When did you get me a present?”
“I asked my assistant to have something sent over.” He lifts his chin for me to take it. “When we were in the elevator last night.”
This feels vaguely Pretty Woman and I’m not sure how to feel about it. But I take the bag and peek inside. Whatever it is, it’s wrapped in heavy black tissue paper, and when I pull it free, I am both delighted and horrified.
“The dress is fine,” he says quietly, “but I didn’t want you getting on a plane with nothing underneath.”
I stare at him, strangling my smile between my teeth.
He winces. “It’s weird, right? Am I being weird?”
“It’s incredibly sweet,” I say, laughing, “if not a tiny bit weird.” It’s simple, beautiful, and functional—as much as a pair of satin-and-lace underwear can be. “This is definitely a first for me as far as one-night stands go.”
“Well…” His lips purse in a scowl as my words sink in. “How many have you had?”
He seems to immediately regret asking, but I tease back, “How many have you had?”
Alec stares at me, eyes narrowing. “All right.”
“Thank you for this.” I stretch to kiss his cheek. Cheek feels safe. Not boyfriend, my brain whispers. I focus on the gesture rather than the reality that his assistant had women’s lingerie delivered to his hotel room during his unexpected layover. How standard is that kind of request? Did they even blink?
Whatever. It solves my underwear dilemma, and I’m choosing to be thankful for it. “I’ll be a lot more comfortable on the plane now. I mean it.”
“Speaking of comfort.” He pauses and then nods to the bag. “There’s something else in there.” Alec reaches up, scratches the back of his neck. His skin is flushed again, his movements unsure.