Chapter 15

Elsa

I wake up to someone pounding loudly on...what, a wall? A door?

Ugh, no. It’s coming from inside my head. That pounding is the unmistakable throbbing of too much tequila.

I pull my silk duvet cover-up to burrow under my bed a little longer before facing the world. Only this isn’t my duvet cover, or my bed, or my bedroom.

Wherever I am, it’s luxurious. The bed that forms around my body, the crystal lamp on the mirrored nightstand. The room is certainly professionally decorated.

And then it hits me. I’ve been here before. Many times actually.

I’m in Tanner’s bed. I hate the idea of moving one inch of my aching body, but I turn enough to confirm my suspicions: I’m completely naked.

Without even seeing a mirror, I know my hair is not in its normally perfectly coiffed state. Nope, I look—I feel—like shit.

The first priority, however, is finding my clothes. I start scanning the room for clothing and maybe some clues as to what transpired after we left the rooftop.

And that’s when I see black fabric crumpled on the floor between the bed and the couch. One stiletto is lying near the dress, the other is MIA. Glancing up as the room spins, I see my red panties from my upcoming spring line, spinning around the room, hooked on one of the ceiling fan blades.

Hopefully, those undies are the only thing that went for a ride last night.

I’m still doing an inventory of my belongings when I feel Tanner come into the room. Moments before he appears in the doorway, looking as sexy as always, I pull his high-thread-count sheets up around my neck and stare at his muscled chest and washboard abs.

His hair is perfectly tousled, his eyes sparkling. This Adonis of a man looks rested. I feel like I look like roadkill, and he looks good enough to fuck.

For all I can remember, we did just that last night.

Tanner enters the room carrying a tray filled with life-giving coffee. He sets the tray down on the bed in front of me. It smells so fucking good.

My eyes linger on his chest where a trail of hair leads right to his crotch. The boxer shorts he’s sporting are just thin enough that I can see a bulge.

The thought that we did, in fact, fuck last night isn’t a bad one. The fact that I can’t remember every delicious detail is, however.

He gently sits on the edge of the bed beside the coffee tray, staring intently at me with his steely eyes and a mischievous grin. He’s looking pretty proud of himself, so I decide it’s now or never.

“So, did we fuck last night?” I say as I meet his intense gaze, eye-to-eye.

“Good morning to you, too, angel,” he responds with plenty of amusement in his voice.

Instead of giving me an answer—things are never straight-forward with Tanner—he occupies himself with pouring two cups of coffee.

“My head is throbbing too much for your Prince Charming routine,” I groan. “Just answer the fucking question.”

“No, we did not have sex last night,” he says as he hands me my coffee.

I spot a folded newspaper on the tray. He doesn’t skip a beat, does he?

I take a sip—it’s exactly how I like it. How did he remember?

“I prefer a woman to be conscious during sex,” he says. “Call me old-fashioned.”

Good, I think. One thing about Tanner Sharpe, you want to remember fucking him. And I’d like to think that no matter how much tequila I consume, I’d remember tearing up the bed sheets with him.

That leaves one other question, though.

“Shit, how drunk was I?”

He chuckles and says, “Drunk enough to do a sexy little strip tease for me,” pointing over to my bra hanging over a picture frame on the opposite side of the room, “before passing out on my side of the bed.”

“Ooops, sorry.”

“Well, to be fair, you passed out on the other side of the bed, too. You landed in a diagonal.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t break something, stumbling around your bedroom half-naked.”

“You were graceful as always,” he says with a smile.

I’m sure he’s lying, but I silently applaud his chivalrous response. I return his smile as I sip on the much-needed caffeine.

“What wasn’t graceful was the way you hogged all the covers,” Tanner says. “I was lucky to get an inch of material to keep me warm last night.”

“Just like old times, right?” I say. “At least that’s what you always accuse me of in the morning. I’ve never believed it, though.”

“You’re calling me a liar?” He laughs.

“No, I’m a giver. You know that,” I say. “It’s not in my nature to deprive anyone—even you—of warmth.”

“Too bad it’s not the middle of winter,” he teases, “or I’d have the frostbite to prove my story.”

“And in this whole penthouse apartment, there’s not another single blanket or comforter you could have grabbed to keep you warm?” I volley back.

“Usually my bed partner keeps me warm. I guess you’re not as giving as you’d like to think.”

I can hear the shower being turned off in the master bedroom. From my position still in Tanner’s bed, I’ve made a little hangover cocoon for myself. The second cup of coffee is slowly doing its trick, and I feel slightly more alive than when I first gained consciousness.

I rub my face with my hands, not wanting to think what damage I’ve done sleeping with make-up on. During my modeling days, when I spent hours in heavy make-up, I always washed my face and moisturized before bed. If I had my products with me, I would have knocked Tanner over before he ever made it to the bathroom.

As it is, cleaning last night’s smoky eye look will have to wait a little while longer.

I take another big gulp of coffee and continue thumbing through The Capitalist Chronicle. I turn the page and find Lis Langley’s latest article. It’s full of details on all of our latest relationship exploits, all carefully curated for the media.

I’m about to flip the page and check out the latest stock news when there, at the bottom of her article, I see it. There, in all the awful black and white print, my day gets a whole lot worse.

“Sharpe and Blakely will meet with the press at 9 a.m. tomorrow outside of Sharpe Tower for what promises to be an important reveal.”

I look up from my paper to see Tanner walk back into the bedroom, freshly showered, looking mighty proud of himself.

“So, what do you think of the article?” he says, as he finishes securing his cufflinks.

“You’re already dressed?”

I look back down at the article: 9 a.m.

Nine.

This morning.

Fuck.

“How much time do I have?”

Tanner glances down at his watch and says, “Until we have to leave? Oh, about ten minutes, angel.”

He reaches into his closet and grabs his suit jacket. Swinging it around to slip into it, he looks sexy as hell, showered and shaved.

I stumble out of bed, my head pounding with exertion, and make my way to the still-steamy bathroom. I grab a towel to clean the mirror, only to be rewarded with what could generously be called a blonde, homeless raccoon staring back at me in the mirror.

“Chop, chop,” Tanner says behind me, a little too cheerfully, “You don’t want to be late for your own announcement, do you?”

We might not have fucked last night, but Tanner Sharpe certainly fucked me up this morning.