Chapter Six

Beau

She looks fresh, hair swept up in a messy bun on top of her head, black clothing. Annabel Forester looks . . . comfortable. It’s not the kind of thing I’d wear to the office, but there’s no shame in her eyes. The pink in her cheeks makes me want to smile back at her, and so I do.

“Correct. It’s me.”

Annabel winds the cord of her headphones around her fingers and shoves them, along with her phone, into the purse dangling from her shoulder. I try to act like my heart isn’t beating out of my chest. Like I wasn’t hoping to see her here when I gave my driver, Winston, the morning off and stopped at the Pearl before I make the rounds at my offices. Why I care if Winston sees me with a woman, I don’t know, but I’m not going to dwell on it now.

“Do you actually own this hotel?”

It’s not the question I expected from her, and it makes me laugh. “Yes, of course I do. Do you actually work for the production here?”

“Yes. The morning you saved my life”—she grimaces—“was my first day on the job.”

“That bad?”

Annabel laughs. “The job is great. I don’t love being rescued like some damsel in distress, though.”

“Better rescued than flattened.”

“I’d have seen it coming in time.”

“Confident,” I tell her. “Very confident.”

Annabel shrugs. “I live in the city. But I know Marilee flew out from LA. I don’t know about the bike situation there, but—”

“Marilee . . .”

“Marilee North. The costume designer for the show.” She narrows her eyes. “Are you sure you own this hotel?”

I’m sure I want to take her somewhere for breakfast. Somewhere quiet, away from the traffic. My veins pulse with the urgent need to know more about her, and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I’ve been suffering for a week. It makes no sense. Annabel Forester, she of the pink hair and blue eyes, is not the kind of elegant woman I need by my side. I shouldn’t bother.

And yet . . . here I am.

“I’m sure,” I tell her, and then I clear my throat. “I’m afraid I’ve been very rude.”

Annabel grins at me. “You didn’t bring flowers, for one thing.”

“Flowers?”

She laughs. “For rejecting my coffee date.”

The emptiness of my hands has never felt more palpable than right now. Something about being near Annabel throws me completely and utterly off-kilter. I’ve built my life on careful planning, careful consideration. I don’t show up with nothing. That’s not me. Worse still, on the plane back to New York, I realized I never told her my name. I’d walked away like some common asshole on the street.

Someone honks a car horn in the closest lane, and it grates on my nerves. I haven’t planned for this. I haven’t planned for any of this. She’s right. I’ve got to wipe the slate clean somehow. “Would you like to get some breakfast with me?”

Annabel’s grin grows wider. “I don’t go off with mystery men, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“I’m not a mystery man, I’m—” I steady myself. Then I extend my hand like a gentleman would do and not like the douchebag I was pretending to be the other day. “My name is Beau Bennett.”

Annabel takes my hand and shakes it firmly. “You remember who I am, clearly.”

“Yes, clearly I do.” I can’t help smiling at her. I’m not a giddy kind of man, but the energy in the air around her is contagious. “I should have taken you up on your offer.” I don’t want to, but I let go of her hand. “Come for breakfast with me, and let me make it up to you.”

“I would love to,” Annabel says, and then she does something with her face that I rarely see on anyone’s face. Not these days. “But I can’t. I’ve got work.” She waves a hand dismissively in the air. “No need to make it up to me, though. I never get too attached.”

She whirls around and flies up the steps of the Pearl.

What. Just. Happened?

Was I rejected out of hand by a woman who, if I’m not mistaken, is wearing the same outfit I first saw her in a week ago? How can she possibly say no to me? She’s working in my hotel.

“Wait!” I shout the word after her as if she’ll disappear completely once she’s through the front doors. My heart pounds wildly. She’s a whirlwind, a tempest, an imp, and I should want absolutely nothing to do with her. I should take this as a sign that we are not meant to be. Not even for breakfast, much less the things I want to do with her behind closed doors. I’ve never come across a woman like her, and in the bedroom, where I can truly be in control . . .

Annabel turns to face me, and for a split second I see what she’ll look like when I take her. “Yeah?” She calls down to the bottom of the steps, and the tenor of her voice makes me hard. I ignore it and cross the sidewalk. That’s as far as I’m willing to go. I’m not going to follow her to the top of the steps—not a chance.

“If you won’t go for breakfast, how about dinner? When is your shift over?”

She shrugs one shoulder, cheeks a deepening pink. “It depends on when Marilee’s done for the day. Sometimes I work late. I don’t know if I can—”

“Eat,” I tell her in as firm a tone as I’d use at the office. “Marilee can spare you for an hour. I’ll meet you here at five.”

She opens her mouth—I picture those lips yielding to mine—and closes it again, giving me another little grin, eyes alight. For one charged instant, I think she might say no, might grab the door handle and run away from me. Her blue eyes dance in the sunlight, and I see the hesitation in the way she shifts her weight from side to side the slightest bit. I want to put my hands on her hips. I put them in my pockets instead.

“It’s a date,” she says finally, and then she’s gone.