Page 11 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“So do I.”

I stare at the key. Then at him. Then back at the key, because apparently one of us is hallucinating and I’m really hoping it’s him.

“No.”

One dark eyebrow rises. “No?”

“No. This is my room. I was here first.”

“That doesn’t make my key imaginary.”

“How do I know that’s even for this room?”

“You want me to demonstrate?”

“Absolutely not. You’ve demonstrated enough for one afternoon.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, which is annoying because apparently he gets even hotter when he’s trying not to smile.

“Must’ve been a mistake at the front counter,” he says.

“Great. Then you can go downstairs and fix it.”

“Why me?”

I gape at him. “Because I’m naked under this robe.”

His gaze drops before he can stop it, landing directly on the knot at my waist.

And there it is again.

That look.

Heat crawls up my neck as his eyes slowly return to mine, because I know that look. Or at least I should know it. I’ve seen women get it from men in bars and restaurants. I’ve watched it happen to Claire. Hell, I’ve written about romantic resorts where couples spend entire weekends looking at each other exactly like that.

I’ve just never had a man look at me that way.

Not at my face. At me.

At all of me.

And suddenly I’m thinking about the mirror again. My thighs. My stomach. My ass. All the parts I was inspecting five minutes ago like they had personally offended me.

He saw them.

Every single one.

And unless I am wildly misreading the expression on his face, he liked what he saw.

Really liked it.

Something strange happens to the embarrassment sitting like a rock in my stomach. It doesn’t disappear exactly. It just gets tangled up with something warmer.

“You could at least apologize,” I say.

His brow creases. “For being given a key to my room?”

“For staring.”