by Lila Monroe
Only a few weeks out of the year? I can’t help but shake my head.
“What?” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”
If I had a dollar for every time a man told me that, I would have one dollar.
“It’s just…” I hesitate, then keep going. “I can’t imagine buying a huge, pine-treed nirvana of a place like this and then only living in it for a few measly weeks out of the year.”
He runs a hand through his already-tousled hair and laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that reverberates, rich and warm.
“What can I say? My business requires maintaining a rigorous schedule, and having things a certain way.” He leans forward, close to me again. “You understand, don’t you? Needing that kind of order in your life?”
He changes from casual to closely intent in an instant. I’ve never met anyone who could switch those gears so effortlessly. Maybe that blend of personalities is the only way someone can go from a freewheeling rocker to a record mogul in just a few short years. My heart beats faster. No, it doesn’t. Okay, maybe it does. Just a little.
“I like having everything exactly the way I want it,” he says. There’s a challenge in his eyes.
“Or you like paying someone to make everything the way you want it,” I say, keeping my voice light. He laughs.
“Something like that.”
I give a very theatrical, hopefully convincing yawn. “Wow, it’s late and I’m beat. Time for bed. Thanks for loaning me the couch and the TV.” I click off the television as Ace stands and helps me to my feet.
He doesn’t let go of my hand. We’re close enough that I can feel heat radiating from his body. I breathe in the scent of him, pine and snow. He’s only wearing a thin black tee shirt, and I’m pretty sure I can pick out the definition of every part of his body.
He still hasn’t let go of my hand. Lightly, he runs his thumb across my palm.
“I don’t know if you got the full tour of the house. Best thing about it, in my opinion, is the spa hot tub. It’s just outside.”
“Oh?” I should take my hand away, but my body won’t do what I tell it. “It’s a little cold out there, isn’t it?”
“Once you’re in, you won’t even notice. I’m planning on a midnight soak. It loosens the muscles, lets the thoughts flow free.” He pulls me a little closer, mischief in his expression. “Why don’t you join me?”
“I.” There’s nothing I can say that’ll make sense. Ace grins. It’s a wicked smile, that’s the only way to describe it. “I don’t think I should,” I manage. “There’s a perfectly functional tub in my bathroom, anyway. So. I’ll just take a raincheck. On the hot tub.”
“You don’t want to try it?” He lets go of my hand and touches my face. “Or is it that you’re afraid of me?” He trails his fingertips across my cheek. “Which is it? Door one or two? One of them leads to a fabulous destination vacation.” His voice drops to a lower register. A sexy one. “You should loosen up, party planner. It’s just hot water. And I promise you’ll still be your tough and capable self afterward.”
My breath hitches in my throat. I’m almost ready to say something stupid, like ‘I don’t have a bathing suit’ or ‘which way to the pitch black snowy outdoors?’ when common sense crashes through the window to truss me up, sling me over its shoulder, and race away.
“It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I should get some sleep. Good night.” I break away from him as not-awkwardly as possible and head upstairs. I have to stop halfway up, though, and lean against the railing and close my eyes. My heart is still racing, and all the heat in my body has pooled, not so unwelcomely, between my legs.
I told the truth—I do have to grab a shower and go to bed. But the thought of Ace out there in the hot tub, stripped down, his muscles relaxing under the beat of the jets…
I’ll probably need to make it a cold shower.
Chapter 3
I wake up to white. The blizzard outside is total and extreme. I can’t even see the pine trees ten yards from the house.
Oh God. The party. No, no, I’ve worked too hard for this to go up in smoke. Or snow. Damn. I dress quickly and rush downstairs to find Ace pacing back and forth on his phone. His look tells me everything.
“So,” I say, my stomach crashing like a cheap elevator in a disaster movie.
“Sorry, but everything’s grounded at the airport. We, meanwhile, are completely snowed in. Have you seen The Shining? Because I promise it won’t be exactly like The Shining.” He shrugs. “It may get a little like The Shining, though.”
“I don’t think you’d be very menacing swinging around a croquet mallet,” I say, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice. All my hard work, ruined. Not only that, but my chance to show all these A-list celebrities and high-level executives what I’m made of, to get referrals outside my mom’s social circle? Not gonna happen now.
He smiles. “Referencing the book instead of the movie. You get ten points in Cabin Fever Bingo. Relax,” he says, moving closer. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and some punk-rock-band-I’ve-never-heard-of’s tee shirt. It’s old and worn thin and clinging to his chest the way I want to be right now, despite my frustration at the weather. “Look at it this way. At least the melted chocolate fountain won’t go to waste.”
“I canceled it,” I say, weakly smiling.
Ace sighs. “Then we’re truly doomed. But before doom, we feast. Come on, party planner. Let’s see how good the rest of your menu really is.” Even the way he says ‘your menu’ sounds enticing. He leads the way into the kitchen, and I follow. What am I supposed to do now?
Whatever you want, Paige. You’re not going anywhere, not unless you have a shovel and a will of iron, and right now those are in short supply. The roads are blocked, and I’m trapped in a rustic ski lodge paradise with a mountain of gourmet food, a hot tub, and the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in the flesh.
I guess this job just turned into a vacation.
Trying to relax in Ace Carmichael’s alpine chateau is easier said than done. I try lying on the couch and staring outside at the snowfall: nope. I get started on brainstorming some ideas for New Year’s events—better to get on top of it now than to wait, especially when every client is going to want their party to be completely one-of-a-kind—but nothing comes to me. I try to get lost in a good book—Death Comes to Pemberley, mixing the two greatest things possible in a novel, Mr. Darcy and murder—but I can’t make my eyes focus. As much as I hate admitting it to myself, I’ve got a bad case of Ace on the brain.
He’s somewhere in his studio, and I’m all alone out here in the living room with these magnificent holiday decorations that no one is going to see, and a smorgasbord of incredible food in the kitchen that I have got to stop picking at.
I go upstairs and call my sister. Ally answers on the third ring.
“Paige? What’s up?” She sounds breathless.
“What’ve you been doing?” I ask.
“Hunter. We’ve been—”
“Banana slug!” I say, interrupting her with our ‘TMI sex story’ safe word. I really don’t need the mental image right now. Or ever.
“No, you dirty-minded nerfherder. We had to run back to the house. It was the only way to get a minute’s peace. Mom’s probably lurching up the driveway right now, weighed down with swatches of peach silk and mauve taffeta for the bridesmaids’ dresses she wants to design. She’s like the pastel Walking Dead.” Ally sighs. “How’s it going over there? What are y’all drinking? Any brawls? Anyone banging in the hot tub yet?”
“Um, what?” I say that too quickly, and with way too much interest. Then I cough and clear my throat and make all those ‘no, no banging, what is this hot tub banging of which you speak?’ noises that totally do not convince Ally at all.
“So someone got naughty, did they?” Her voice perks up.
“No one else is here. The flights are all grounded.” Then I clamp my hand over my mouth, because I just gave my sister,
who has the nose of a bloodhound when it comes to sexual attraction, a really easy way to draw her own conclusions.
“Wait. So it’s just you and the record hottie client, all alone in his cozy little log cabin in the mountains?” I have to hold the phone away from my ear when Ally whoops and starts chanting, “Yes! Yes! Get it, girl! Show him your records!”
“Ally, please. We haven’t done anything. And we’re not going to. And anyway that doesn’t even make any sense.”
“Go platinum in eight countries! Hit the top of those Billboard charts! Woot!”
I consider opening up the window and climbing out to freeze to death rather than listening to this. “Ally, even if anything had happened in said hot tub, which it did not—”
“But it might.”
“But it did not. Because I didn’t even go in the hot tub. He’s the client, Ally. As in, we maintain a professional relationship. As in, said professional relationship does not include him with his shirt off, in the spa hot tub, out in the snow, with the gleaming six pack and the lumberjack stubble and the—”
“Oh my God, you’ve totally thought this through!” Ally cackles like some kind of cackling monkey you find in the deep Amazon, and then never bring to civilization because it’s too annoying.
“I’m hanging up now,” I say.
“If you’re stranded in the snow, there’s nothing better to do. And by nothing I mean no one,” Ally gets in before I say ‘Love you, bye!’ hit the End Call button, and toss the phone on the bed. Feeling cooped up and not at all filled with even the smallest amount of sisterly affection after that phone call, I head out the door and stomp my way downstairs.
As I reach the living room, I pause. There’s the muffled beat of music coming from down the hallway. I wander along the corridor, stopping outside of Ace’s studio. The door’s open a crack, which as far as I’m concerned is an invitation to poke my head in. The music is simultaneously smooth and rough, both rock and something strangely cool. It’s coming from several very large speakers spaced around the room.
Ace stands off to the side, a pair of Bose headphones slung around his neck. His whole body moves with the thump of the bass. He’s leaning his left hand against the wall, and drums his fingers to the music. It’s like he is the music, all coiled energy that releases and then retracts, completely effortless. He leans down and types something into his computer, stops the music, restarts it. His brow is furrowed, his gaze so heated I’m surprised the computer screen doesn’t burst into flames.
Then, while the music continues to play, he picks something up from off his desk and spins it between his fingers. It’s a drumstick, and he starts tapping it against the desk and the wall, keeping up with the beat of the music. He goes faster, really flying, until he hisses in pain and drops it. He shakes out his wrist once, twice, and curses.
Startled, I move inside just a little more, and the door creaks. Instantly, Ace turns to me. His frown disappears too quickly; his face relaxes into a wide, white smile that feels almost too perfect.
“Sorry,” I say, wanting to disappear. “Um, what are you doing?”
“Nothing,” he says, too easy as he snatches the drumstick up off the ground. “Messing around.” He slides the drumstick into an open drawer and looks back at me. “Your timing is perfect. I need someone else’s opinion.” His voice is a little too eager; he wants me to forget whatever I just saw. He clicks something on the computer, and the music starts up again. It’s the kind of sound that gets straight down into your bones, making you want to dance. I close my eyes and find myself swaying a little. The music shuts off, and Ace laughs. I pretend I totally wasn’t just dancing awkwardly with myself.
“Sorry. I got a little carried away.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to see. Music’s about the body, not the mind.” He types something else and looks up at me, a lock of that dark, wild hair falling into his eyes. “It’s like that connection with someone, that physical rush when you first meet them. There’s nothing mental about it. You didn’t tell yourself that you liked the way their hair looked, or how they took a sip of their drink. You didn’t order yourself to notice their ass and get excited.” He laughs when my face heats up. “You know what I’m saying. Chemistry’s the most important thing. You can’t fake it.”
“I get that,” I nod, trying not to think about the last guy I’d felt that kind of chemistry with. Sergei was an ex from art school; our attraction was so intense that I willfully ignored the fact that he’d never been long term relationship material in college—and probably never would be—and let myself get involved in another fling that I’d been naïve enough to believe could turn into something more. It hadn’t ended well.
“So.” Ace takes the headphones from around his neck and puts them on my ears. “Show me what you think. Don’t tell me. I want you to feel it here,” he lays his palm against the center of his chest, “or here,” his hand moves to his stomach, “or right here,” he gestures at his crotch, and I totally fail to not-see the spectacular bulge straining at the button fly of his 501 jeans. My throat constricts, but before I can reply he clicks something on the computer screen, and the music floods all around me.
It’s softer this time, somehow more relaxed than before. If the first track made me want to dance around, this one makes me want to move slowly. There’s a low, pulsing bass line, a teasing cymbal. It’s rhythmic. Kind of like…I’m not going to say sex.
I’m going to think sex.
Ace has his hands on either side of my head, holding the headphones in place. A grin spreads across his face as he watches me, clearly enjoying whatever he’s seeing. Is what I’m thinking that obvious? Or is it that I can’t help the slow sway of my body to the music, or the way my eyes are closing halfway, my head tilting back?
He says something that I can’t hear, so I focus on his mouth to try to read the words. It doesn’t work, of course. But I do notice the perfect shape of his lips, and I can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to have that mouth pressed against mine, trailing a hot blaze down my neck, dipping lower to tease at my…
Dear God, I need to take off these headphones right now. And say ten Hail Marys while I’m at it. My eyes widen and I put my hands on his—they’re warm, hot even—and firmly push them away. I slide the Bose off and shake out my hair.
“So. Which one did you like better?” he says. “Though I think I can already tell.” His eyes slide over me from head to toe.
“I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask.” Do I sound breathless? I swallow. “I don’t know anything about music.”
He shrugs. “You listen to the radio, don’t you? You have your favorite artists and songs. Your job is to want something. Mine is to make sure you get exactly what you want.”
I ignore my heart racing faster and faster. “So that’s your job? Yesterday, it seemed like a lot of calls, paperwork, and contracts.”
“That’s the stuff I have to get through in order to focus on the important work, the stuff that really matters. This.” He gestures to the computers, the speakers, the board with its blinking lights, flicking gauges, and color-coded levers. “I have to pay attention to the details so the musicians can create. It’s the little things that can make or break a song, and those songs shape the band’s whole career.” He smiles. “It’s like party planning, I guess.”
“A lot like it,” I laugh, almost nervous. He takes the headphones back from around my neck, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin there. It’s like a kiss of electricity.
His eyes get a faraway look in them. “I still dream about it, sometimes. That rush of creating, playing with the band.” With his normally flashing eyes quieting down like this, I feel like I’m finally seeing a more vulnerable side of Ace. It’s the part of him that was drumming with the music, and got so angry when he couldn’t. “But I have a head for business. It’s always been natural. So it made sense for me to go in this direction. And hey, it’s worked out for everyone so far, hasn’t it
?” That cocky, charming edge is back, but I saw that glimpse into something else. There’s sadness there, tucked away.
I glance down at his left hand. It looks fine to me, but of course I don’t ask about the accident. That’s not my business.
My stomach gurgles. Ace looks around the room and points at the ceiling.
“This room’s acoustics are perfect. That was a Grammy-winning growl.”
Stupid stomach. “I forgot to get lunch. Sorry for disturbing you, I’ll go to the kitchen.”
“No,” he says, shutting down his computer. “Let’s eat together. I’ve got lights, music, five kinds of edible sea urchin. I’m all set for a party, and I’m going to have one.”
“A party of two,” I say, trying to make a joke. His hand brushes my shoulder, just for a moment, and then he leans a little closer.
“That’s the right number for fun,” he says, almost whispering it in my ear. He steps back, wearing that easy smile. “Come on. Let’s see what’s good. Unless you’re still afraid of me. That hot tub was pretty lonely last night.”
I know he’s teasing me, but I can’t help the flush of heat that spreads fast and low at the thought of Ace sitting in the spa, hot and naked under a starlit sky.
“I’m not afraid,” is all I manage.
“Off we go, then,” he smiles.
I follow him toward the kitchen, wondering how the hell I ended up trapped in a palatial ski lodge with a snowstorm outside and the sexiest guy I’ve ever met inside. It’s not like I haven’t picked up on his flirty vibe, but I’m not dumb enough to think it actually means anything—guys like Ace Carmichael can have their pick of women, so he probably acts like this all the time. And hooking up with my first real client is the last thing I should be doing when I’ve worked so hard to launch my career and start earning some respect in the field. He’s off-limits. I’ll just have to stay strong.
This is either a total dream come true or else my worst nightmare—but either way, it won’t be long before I find out which.