Page 40 of Not Safe for Work

“As if you didn’t come out here dressed like that on purpose,” I say and hear him chuckling as I duck into the room.

After I order, I change into a pair of shorts and a tank top.

A knock sounds at the door, and a man wearing a black vest wheels a cart into the room.

“Where would you like it, miss?”

“Out there, please.” I gesture to the balcony and fetch two glasses and a bottle of white wine from the fridge. Once the man returns to the room, he tips his head and leaves, closing the door as I step onto the balcony.

Rafe is standing at the cart, lifting the silver covers off our plates.

“Could you put on a shirt?” I ask. It comes out more as a demand than a question, but I can barely think right now. My mouth is operating with a set of unapproved directions.

“Why?” He gives me an innocent look, and I summon a glare.

“Because we’re about to eat, and it’s… unsanitary.” I gesture vaguely in his direction as if to demonstrate how his nakedness is contaminating my food. Who am I kidding? I kind of want his nakedness contaminating my… everything.

He sets the metal covers on the cart’s lower shelf and smirks as he passes me, entering the suite and disappearing into the second bathroom. With no bedroom of his own, he’s turned it into a makeshift closet-slash-dressing room.

A flash of guilt nibbles in my stomach, and I consider offering him space in my closet and then dismiss the idea. I don’t need him any closer to my orbit. Instead, I make it up to him by pouring him a glass of wine and setting his food on a small table between the two loungers. I settle on the left one with my knees straddled on either side of the table.

A moment later, Rafe emerges wearing a white T-shirt that molds to him so perfectly that I’m not actually sure this is any better.

“Happy?” he asks.

I suck in a calming breath. I have to stop this.

As he sits down across from me, I pretend I’m assessing his attire—but I make it look like I’m not enjoying it. I hope.

“Yes, now I can stomach my food.”

He points at my half-eaten burger. “Oh good, because it looks like you’re nearly done.”

“I had one bite.”

He arches a dark eyebrow as he picks up his burger. It looks so tiny in his large hands. He leans forward to take a bite, and his knees brush mine. I almost flinch at the shock that zips straight to my navel.

He takes another bite, shifting so my legs are sandwiched between his. When his calf presses mine, I try not to react. Was that deliberate? I’m reading far too much into this innocent movement. It’s just been ages since a man has properly touched me. That’s all this is. I think of my electronic friend that I packed and haven’t had the opportunity to use. I just need a little me time, and these wholly inappropriate urges will go away.

Our eyes meet across the tiny table. I want that smile again. I want his dimple and the light in his eyes. I want him to look at me the way he looks at everyone else. This is bad. A dimple isn’t supposed to be sexual, and I can hardly blame my drought on this. Tension settles around us, but it isn’t unpleasant. It’s alive and electric.

I need to break out of this moment, and thankfully, Rafe doesn’t disappoint me.

“What kind of maniac dips their fries in mayo and ketchup?” he asks before taking another bite of his burger. The way his mouth closes over the bun makes me wish I was—never mind. That’s even too sad for me to admit. His leg presses harder against mine as I narrow my eyes.

“It’s good. Since when is condiment selection related to one’s mental stability?”

Rafe snorts, snatches a fry from my plate, and dips it in my mayo and my ketchup. I make an affronted sound that he ignores as he puts it in his mouth, and now I wish were a—stop it.

A tiny blob lingers in the corner of his mouth, and I bite my lip as his tongue reaches out to catch it.

“Not bad,” he says, oblivious to the riot of sensation he’s inciting in the needy place between my thighs.

He smiles. Again. And I have to look away. This is too much.

We eat a while longer in companionable silence. When I’m done, I scoot back on my chair and fold my hands over my stomach.

“I wish I’d ordered dessert, too.” I stare forlornly at my empty plate, hoping something sugary will materialize by the sheer force of my pout.