Page 127 of Heart Over Heels

They all helped themselves, deftly unwrapping and cheeking the things. Zephyr fiddled with the plastic on his far longer than necessary. Then he stared down at it, his hands about as wobbly as his bottom lip.

“Hey.” I chucked his chin with a crooked finger and raised his gaze to mine. “You’re okay. Becky will be back in the morning, and he’ll take care of you. You won’t go hungry.”

Zephyr nodded, though he looked ready to cry again.

I opened my arms. “Come here.”

Sniffling, he peeled away from Oz’s side and latched onto me. His strength startled me, proof of what a steady diet of lust and love could do for a body.

Zephyr was still attached when a familiar voice rumbled from behind us.

“Luxe, my pet, what brings you by unannounced? And with guests?”

Bracing myself, I turned to where Vaughn stood in a satin smoking jacket with the Crowndell’s crest stitched over his heart, looking more befuddled than fond. He frowned at the assembly of bedraggled demons behind me.

I disentangled myself from Zephyr and smoothed my skirt, making sure every ruffle and ribbon lay exactly how they should. Sure, I was a little out of character, but what red-blooded man hadn’t entertained a French maid fantasy? Might as well lean into it.

“Vaughn,” I purred, stepping toward him. “Sorry to catch you at an inopportune time, but we find ourselves in need of rooms for the night.” I gestured to where my little herd waited, droopy and listing.

Vaughn snaked an arm around my waist and reeled me in, then ducked his head to whisper, “Something wrong with your usual accommodations?”

I tittered, light and airy, because the truth—that the police ran us out after angels planted a cadaver in our building—was not something I intended to hand out. Better to leave the muckraking to the news.

“Renovations, you know,” I said. Not entirely a lie. “We decided we’d rather not breathe construction dust for tonight, and of course I thought of you.” I let my lashes sweep up, sweet and hopeful. “I was thinking five rooms? Or four. The redhead can stay with me.” I indicated Zephyr, doe-eyed and puffy-lipped.

“I see,” Vaughn murmured.

I could tell by his tone exactly what he saw. The dolls, even on their best behavior, were still a spectacle, one he didn’t mind flaunting by the pool for his high rollers. But letting us hole up in unbooked rooms? That was charity, and Vaughn Ashford didn’t do charity unless it somehow paid him back.

As if spurred by my thought, Vaughn’s hand roamed lower until his fingers could slip under the hem of my skirt. He traced the cleft of my ass, nudging my underwear aside until his skin met mine.

“Why not let the redhead have his own room,” Vaughn whispered. “And you can bed down with me?”

My thighs tensed and turned the rest of me rigid. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. I’d asked for a favor, and he wanted one in return. This was business, and I was a professional. I knew how the trade worked.

Swallowing, I brushed my bangs back then planted my palm on Vaughn’s chest, right on top of the Crowndell crest. It was an effort at connection when what I wanted was to shove him off.

“I’d hate to see you get any less than your money’s worth,” I said, voice throaty. “And I’m not… at my best right now.”

Vaughn’s dark brows shot up, incredulous. “Are you offering me an IOU?”

“I’m offering youmyself,” I clarified. “On another night. At another time.” I paused, caught between what I couldn’t say and the desperation I couldn’t outrun.

Stepping closer to Vaughn made it feel like he was all over me. His fingertips feathering across my ass, his chest drawing breath against mine, his smell contaminating the air. It was all so wrong when what I wanted was a basic white man with strong shoulders and a scruffy jawline.

But I couldn’t have that, and I couldn’t stand this.

“I’m just asking for some grace,” I managed at last. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Vaughn dipped his chin, halfway to a nod. His hand moved from my ass to my elbow and closed around it. Then he pulled me a few steps away from the check-in counter—far enough to allow for privacy, but still close enough for him to flaunt the hold he had on me.

Mercer would’ve held my hand, walked beside me, and let me set the pace. He wouldn’t steer me like luggage. He wouldn’t push or prod or make me plead for a moment of peace.

Mercer loved me.

I’d barely given myself time to consider his declaration, much less believe it.

DidI believe it?