Chapter 8
Charles couldn’t sleep. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in his hotel room. The reason for his insomnia invaded: Sarah Woodward. And the way his stomach had reacted to touching her.
Ugh. What are you doing, Charles?
Why was he obsessing about this? About her? He needed sleep. He rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. It took one second before the image that had been taunting him all night returned. Sarah’s dark brown hair, which had been pinned up during the awards ceremony, hung in loose waves around her shoulders in his imagination. Her expressive brown eyes sparkled. The way she smiled brightened her face. His stomach clenched tight. The same way it had earlier. He almost wanted to reach out and check if she was real.
He released a deep sigh, “Dammit.”
Sleep was not going to be his friend tonight.
Might as well do something productive.
He tugged the covers away and pushed himself upright. After switching on the lamp on the nightstand, he made his way to the bathroom.
There he grabbed the hotel’s white robe, shrugged into it, and tied its belt in a loose knot about his waist. He returned to the nightstand and withdrew the notepad and pen he’d slipped into the drawer earlier. The last thing he picked up before leaving was the room key.
If he couldn’t sleep he would walk and work.
Hopefully, it would distract him from a certain woman too.
When he stepped into the outside hall, it was quiet and empty. Excellent. He closed the door behind him. As he strolled, his mind sifted through the plot of the book he was working on. Further ahead, he caught sight of a faint yellow light filtering from an area he knew to be a guest lounging area.
They must leave the lights on all night.
He was one footstep away from entering the lounging area when the light went out. A black, corporeal shadow crept toward him. The next moment, he felt an impact. Somebody had crashed into him. The pad and pen in his hand dropped to the ground. His eyes followed the direction of the items. A second pad and pen were beside his on the plush beige carpet.
A soft and repentant voice exclaimed, “I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
The familiar tone made his stomach clamp tight.
He glanced up . . . and saw Sarah Woodward staring back at him.
“No harm done. What about you? Did you get hurt?”
He did a quick scan to check as she said, “Oh, no. I’m fine. Thank you.”
He nodded, unsure of what else to do.
There was a momentary pause, then she stammered, “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d go for a walk, get some writing done.”
He quirked one side of his mouth. She had the same habit he did.
He was about to confess that when she glanced down then looked quickly away. Her cheeks flushed a shade of light pink as she stammered, “Uh, I should get back.”
She was embarrassed. Why? It had been an accident. As if in answer to his question, he felt something brush his leg. He looked down and noted that the belt of his robe had unfastened, and was now tickling his leg. Underneath the robe, he was wearing nothing but a pair of snug fitting, black underwear. Ah. That was the cause of the embarrassment.
He cleared his throat and fixed the issue. “Of course.”
She looked up into his face. Her eyes seemed to scrutinize him for a second before she bent toward the dropped items.
He stopped her by saying, “Please. Allow me, Mrs. Woodward.”
She straightened as he retrieved the fallen items.
When he stood to full height again, he held the pad and pen that did not belong to him out to her.
“Thank you.” She peeked up from underneath her thick, black, eyelashes.
The simple gesture made the breath in his lungs catch. What was going on with him? It wasn’t like he’d never seen a pretty woman before.
Sarah mumbled, “Good night, Mr. Morgan.”
He nodded, “Goodnight.”
She did an awkward turn then rushed down the hall as though a pack of wolves were chomping at her heels. A hotel robe flapped against her upper thigh as she moved. It was hard not to appreciate the toned shape of her legs. On her feet were fluffy pink slippers, not the ones the hotel had supplied. They marked the silence with a staggered flip flop sound. One corner of his mouth nudged upwards. Why did he find it a little sexy?
At that moment, he was grateful he’d readjusted his robe. The hardening taking place below it would cause more embarrassment––for himself this time––if Sarah turned around.
He shook his head. What are you doing?
So, he found her physically attractive. That didn’t tell him the most important thing. What sort of person was she? If he knew that, he could control the situation better. He would have to do an internet search on her to learn more.
***
Do. Not. Look. Back. Sarah’s internal command continued until she hustled into her room and slammed the door shut. Safe inside, she released a drawn-out sigh and moved to her bed. Sitting at the end of it, the previous events replayed in her mind.
She hadn’t been able to sleep. So, she’d done what she’d always done when insomnia was an issue: grabbed a pen and pad and walked around making notes for whatever new book idea was commanding her attention at the time. She’d finished and was starting to feel sleepy. She’d decided to go back to her room.
And had crashed into Charles Morgan.
Oh, Lord. She’d seen him in his underwear! She lifted a hand to her face when her cheeks warmed. Because Charles Morgan in his underwear was . . . a magnificent sight. She remembered the hardness of his chest, the tight lines of his stomach, and the subtle tan over his body. The outline of his––
Stop it, Sarah!
She closed her eyes in an effort to remove the too real images. Charles Morgan was not her type. Regardless of what the hormones making her lower body parts warm were telling her.
She flicked off her slippers, scampered up the bed, and tucked herself under the sheets. They felt smooth and comforting against her weary muscles.
A sudden thought came. Where was Mark? Unless he’d snuck in when she’d been roaming the halls, he was still out. She frowned. It was late. But, his last words had been: “don’t wait up.” If there was a problem, he would have called. Besides, he was a big boy and could take care of himself. She nestled back into the sheets. And warned her hormone-riddled brain that she would not be dreaming about a certain half-naked man.