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“Massages?” I muse out loud before I can snap my big mouth shut.
He nods, a touch more reserved than usual. “I get the occasional massage when the knots in my leg tighten up to the point of pain.”
“Pain?” In this moment, I hurt for him. God, I’m an insensitive idiot. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Are you in pain now?”
“I’ll manage,” he says with a reassuring smile, pocketing his hands with quiet resilience. “I’ll get out of my getup once you’re settled.”
“I’ll take whatever room is easiest,” I offer.
“No, Jules. You’ll take what you want. The way it should be.” There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—warmth, maybe a hint of something deeper—and holy hell, it’scombustible.
Then he shakes it off, gesturing with a sweep of his arm. “Come on, I’ll show you the rest.”
We reach his room last, and I hesitate at the threshold, awkwardness cementing my feet to the floor. He notices, turning back with a teasing grin. “What are you, a vampire? Need permission to enter?”
“Try to wake me at the crack of dawn, and my fangs will definitely come out,” I shoot back, trying to keep it light.
In one swift move, he grabs my hand and pulls me into the room, forcing me to get comfortable with the space. It’s as if somehow, his presence alone can keep the tension at bay.
The moment I step inside, I notice the small retrofits—discreet bars along the bed, a bench near the shower. Everything is carefully placed, designed for function rather than form. Brian catches my gaze and speaks up, his voice steady. “If you have any questions, you can ask me, Jules.”
“Is it uncomfortable?” I ask, motioning to his leg. “Being on it this long?”
He blows out a breath, the kind that carries more weight than he lets on. “Honestly, it’s more aggravated than usual. Nothing a little ice and rest won’t cure.”
“I can help,” I offer. “Ice is in the kitchen, right? I definitely remember the kitchen during the tour—two side-by-sidebuilt-in refrigerators and an oven big enough for the witch fromHansel and Gretel.”
Before I can make a full-on sprint down the hall, he steps in front of me, blocking my path with an easy confidence. As he loosens his tie, it draws way too much attention to the strong line of his neck. “Relax, Peach Pop. I’ve got it.”
He unbuttons two buttons of his shirt, revealing just enough to make my pulse quicken. And, of course, now I’m staring.
I blink, trying to snap myself out of it, reminding myself that straight-up gawking is rude, even if, on paper, this man is my husband.
“Okay,” I say, glancing at the layout—the guest rooms in relation to his. My feet take me back into the hall, my mind made up before I can second-guess it. “I’ll take this one,” I say, choosing the room closest to his. Because, I don’t know, I just want to be a little closer.
“Nice choice. Gorgeous evening views and minimal morning sun,” he says, then makes a goofy vampire face, hissing playfully. Just when I think he’s done, he leans in and, out of nowhere, pecks me on the lips—a quick, soft brush that catches me completely off guard.
“Goodnight, Peach Pop,” he murmurs with a grin, leaving me standing there, heart racing, high and dry as the Sahara.
For twenty minute, I try—and fail—to unbutton this damned dress past the fifth button. At one point, I probably looked like a cartoon cat chasing its own tail.Argh.
Which means I’m stuck with exactly three options: sleep in it, rip it to absolute shreds, which would be a tragedy becausethis dress is too stunning to take scissors to, or swallow my pride and ask Brian for help.
I knock softly on the door, and after a brief pause, his voice comes through. “Come in.”
I push open the door to his room and immediately freeze. Brian’s lounging on the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms, his hair still damp from the shower, glistening under the low light.
He’s sprawled out in all his lickable glory, and for a second, I’m stunned silent, my mind going completely blank.
He notices me standing there, probably looking like I’ve forgotten how to function. “Everything all right?” he asks, his voice casual, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes.
“So, so fine.”
Quirking an expectant eyebrow, he waits. For me. To speak. Must use voice. “Oh, right. I need help getting out of my dress.”
“Have you tried scissors?” he teases, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Funny,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes.
