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“Don’t worry. It still might come to that,” she responded after she’d got the whisper of injustice under control. She stood with an unconscious elegance, moving to the bathroom. The smell of him in here was even stronger. The mirror had the last remnants of steam, hinting at a not-too-long-ago shower, and a towel had been messily draped over the hook. She ignored it, reaching for a cache of fresh towels and carrying them out with her.
In the hallway outside the bathroom, she called down to concierge, requesting a cleaning kit for the carpets be sent up. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to work her magic with an emergency repair, but it had never been quite such a large stain, nor treated with such casual indifference as by this guest.
She hung up the phone and pressed a towel into the carpet, pushing down on it with her hand to soak up as much of the wine as she could. A satisfying red appeared. Good.
“You don’t have to do that.” Now there was irritation in his voice and when she looked up, it was to see him coming out from behind the kitchen.
“Actually, I do,” she said, unaware of the way her bottom perched in the air, so round and taut. “It’s literally in my job description.”
“It’s my fault,” he muttered, crouching down opposite her and pressing his hand just to the left of her own. “It’s my responsibility to fix it.”
“Your solution was to replace the carpet.”
“So?”
“That’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?”
His response was to move his hand, pressing harder, releasing more wine.
Skye couldn’t help looking at him. Up close, she noticed things she hadn’t at first, like the hint of freckles on his cheeks, or the slightest breath of gold in amongst his dark hair, as though he’d spent the summer in sunny, exotic locations, doing sunny, billionaire things like watersports and getting a tan at beachside bars.
“Perhaps I’m in a drastic mood?”
His features had a harshness though that belied her last supposition. He didn’t seem like someone who’d just chill out in a bar. He seemed like someone wound tighter than a spring.
“This is a lot of carpet,” she pointed out. “Seems stupid to replace it when the stain is just a foot or so in diameter.” Her eyes widened at what she’d just said. “Not that I’m calling you stupid, sir.”
“Leandro,” he said, his name almost like a curse, so she didn’t understand it at first. “My name is Leandro,” he clarified. “Don’t call me sir.”
“Also, part of the job description,” she responded, a small smile on her pink lips. She was surprised. Not that she smiled, but to discover that she wanted him to smile back. It wasn’t her job to cheer him up, but she felt the ripples of his mood and knew—despite not knowing him at all—that something had happened to him, something bad.
“And what else?” He asked, pausing to move the towel aside, and replacing it with a fresh one. The stain was already looking a lot better. The doorbell rang and Skye jolted. She’d forgotten the cleaning kit.
She stood quickly, taking in the sight of the guest on his hands and knees, blotting up the stain, then moved to the food that had been left to cool on the kitchen bench.
“Sir, you need to stop now. Eat your dinner. Drink your whisky. I’ve got this.”
He tossed her a slightly dismissive glance then kept blotting.
When she opened the door, it was to see a housekeeping team with a bucket of supplies. She knew that she should let them in and allow them to deal with the stain, but she was strangely protective of this guest, and the vulnerability she sensed in him. It was ridiculous, because alongside that vulnerability she also felt a sense of command and strength that made him seem almost unbreakable.
He was a contradiction.
Instead of opening the door wider to admit the team, she took the bucket, thanked them, and closed the door.
Leandro lifted his eyes and watched her the whole way back across the carpet and there was something in the intensity of his gaze that made her pulse go haywire. Heat began to fizz in her toes and spread upwards, burning her from the inside out.
“Reinforcements,” she said a little shakily, holding the products aloft. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist you stop now, sir. I really can’t have a guest doing this kind of thing.”
“Are guests not allowed to get their hands dirty?”
“Definitely not.”
“Even with their own mess?”
“I’m not here to blame,” she said with a small shrug.
“And do you often have to clean up after people…” His eyes narrowed. “What is your name?”
