Page 82 of Heart Breaker

The private plane, the mountain views, the fact that my husband owns a private jet. Money truly has its advantages.

The airport disappears behind us as Wes steers onto a winding mountain road, evergreens lining both sides. In the distance, snow-capped peaks rise against a cloudless blue sky. I stick my arm out the window and let the warm mountain air drift through my fingertips. “This place is gorgeous,” I breathe, looking over at Wes.

His mouth twitches. “Wait until you see the chalet.”

I can’t wait. Beneath all of Wes’s brooding and emotional unavailability is a man who thinks of everything. He booked the plane, arranged the car, found the perfect chalet. It’s the way he automatically reaches for my suitcase before I can grab it myself, and somehow anticipates my needs before I’m even aware of them. He does it all so quietly that it would be easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. The problem is, I’ve started paying attention.

It’s all incredibly thoughtful—infuriatingly so because of course eventually this arrangement is going to end. When we started this, I couldn’t wish the days away fast enough. Now, knowing we have an expiration date lands like a stone in the pit of my stomach.

I turn my attention back to the scenery rushing past my window and the other problem I have on my hands. I have three days in a stunning mountain town with a devastatingly handsome man who I’m not allowed to touch. Keeping my hands to myself is going to require a level of restraint I’m not too sure I possess.

Twenty minutes later, we pull into the covered entrance of the chalet resort and my mouth falls open. The hotel looks like something straight out of a luxury travel magazine with towering timber beams and flower boxes overflowing with colorful blooms. The entire property is tucked into the mountainside as though it grew there naturally.

I climb out of the car and slowly take it all in. “This is where we’re staying?”

Wes comes around the vehicle and grabs our bags. “Did you think I would bring my wife someplace mediocre?”

“You’re setting the bar awfully high for future husbands, Wes Winters.”

He frowns, making his brows pull together. Wes’s expression makes me think he’s not a fan of the image I just painted.

“I liked this conversation better before you brought other men into it,” he says with a growl.

Unfortunately, jealousy—is that what that was?—only seems to make him look more attractive. Before I can dwell on that deeply inconvenient fact, Wes reaches for the hotel door and pulls it open. The second we step inside, I’m hit with the scent of an enormous floral arrangement that sits on the entry table. The lobby somehow manages to feel both spacious and cozy, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing panoramic mountain views and oversized leather chairs arranged around a stone fireplace that makes you want to curl up with a blanket and never leave. Everything is warm wood, soft lighting, and understated luxury.

A few minutes later, we’re checked in and heading down a quiet hallway toward our chalet, my sandals sinking into thick carpeting. When we reach the door, Wes pulls a keycard from his pocket, and we step inside to an enormous living room stretched toward a wall of windows overlooking the mountains. Exposed beams cross the vaulted ceiling overhead, while a massive stone fireplace takes up one wall, filling the room with warmth. An oversized cream-colored sofa faces the fire. There’s a wet bar tucked into one corner and a television so large it looks like it belongs in a sports bar.

I drift toward the windows, and my breath catches as I take in the full view. Beyond the glass, towering evergreens blanket the mountainside. Below is the sparkling blue water of the resort pool. But it’s the wraparound balcony that takes my breath away. It stretches the length of the chalet, dotted with lounge chairs draped with soft blankets. A bubbling hot tub is tucked into one corner.

I press my hand against the glass. “Okay.”

Wes sets our bags down behind me. “Okay?”

I glance over my shoulder. “The millionaire lifestyle is growing on me at an alarming rate.”

A laugh escapes him, the smooth sound warming something deep in my chest. “Good thing I have another surprise for you.”

I turn away from the view. “There’s more? Wes, what did you do now?”

He sets our bags on the bench by the door. “Get changed.”

“What?”

“I booked us a spa appointment,” he says. “A massage.”

I stare at him for a second. “You booked us a couple’s massage?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Try not to sound so shocked. I thought you could use one with how hard you work. I figured I could use one too.”

I shake my head in disbelief. “You continue to raise the bar at a completely unreasonable pace.”

He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Go get changed, Peach.”

Fifteen minutes later, I step out of the bathroom wearing a fitted, cropped T-shirt and a pair of shorts, admittedly on the tiny side. I stop short when I find Wes leaning against the kitchen island in a T-shirt and a pair of those athletic shorts that do terrible things to my libido.

He looks up when he realizes I’m in the room with him, and his eyes move slowly over me, taking in every detail with an intensity that sends a nervous flutter through my stomach. It’s definitely not polite. It’s the kind of look that makes a woman wonder exactly what a man is thinking. I shift under the weight of it.

“Something wrong?” I ask, trying to cut the tension that has suddenly settled in the room.