Until Dawn

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “No,” I said quickly. “It’s fine.”

  “You’re sure?” she replied.

  I cast a glance around my room at the Memory Motel. I could swear that Mia’s lightly perfumed scent still clung to the air. I liked it. Even if switching to the Regent was an option, I wouldn’t take it. I sure as hell wasn’t going to confess any of that to Julie, though. And I didn’t need her finding out on her own by mistakenly trying to extend my stay at the Regent.

  “I’m here already,” I told her. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “All right,” she said. “Not too early, then. I’ll email you the details in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was a pause on the other end, and then she hesitantly said, “Mr. Burke?”

  “Yes?” I braced myself for a query on whether or not I’d recently suffered a head injury.

  Instead, she spoke in a rush. “I don’t know what you believe people think of you, but I’ve never heard anyone call you miserable. Tough, yes. Unapologetic and driven, yes. But you’re a fair boss, and everyone down the chain thinks so. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  There was a click on the end, and I was left frowning at my phone. I knew my employees bowed to my will, but I’d always assumed it was out of fear rather than respect. A ruthless bastard. Wasn’t that how they saw me? It was sure as hell how I saw myself. How I aimed to be, even.

  “Seriously, Burke,” I said aloud to the room. “One damned night, one damned bathroom quickie, and you’re questioning who you are? Julie probably just wants a raise.”

  Maybe I’ll even give her one. Once I’ve acquired Trinkets and Treasures, profits should increase more than enough to give her a bump.

  I moved to toss the phone onto the nightstand before remembering about the notification. I debated for the briefest second ignoring whoever it was, then decided I might as well deal with it now instead of waiting for the morning. It wasn’t as though I was just going to drift off to sleep easily.

  I tapped the screen. Immediately, the email app came to life. Mia’s name was highlighted across the top, and I couldn’t deny that more than a tickle of pleasure slipped in at seeing it. I couldn’t tamp it down, either. Not even when I reminded myself that I was trying not to think of her in any way but professional. She’d gone out of her way to block my emails. Which meant she’d now made an effort to unblock them.

  Curious—and admittedly also a little eager—I clicked on the message. My brows clenched together as I read her words. They had a confessional tone. A grudging one too. She liked me. But she wasn’t happy about it.

  So why tell me at all? I wondered. Especially since she thinks I’m on my way home?

  I tapped the phone against my thigh, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for it. I read the note again. She’d called herself Lu, as well, when she’d made it damned clear I shouldn’t refer to her by her nickname.

  “What would make me send someone a message like that?” I mused aloud.

  Then an excuse for it occurred to me, and I typed up a quick reply.

  To: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  From: ebburke@burkeholdings.com

  Subject: re: re: Meeting

  Hello LU.

  One question before I address your concerns. Have you been drinking?

  Ethan.

  I didn’t have to wait long for her answer. In fact, it came so soon that I almost wondered if she’d been sitting there, waiting for me to reply.

  To: ebbburke@burkeholdings.com

  From: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  Subject: re: re: re: Meeting

  No!

  And I don’t have any concerns. Seriously. Just forget it.

  M.

  I smiled, then started a new email thread, just for the sake of being self-indulgently funny.

  To: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  From: ebburke@burkeholdings.com

  Subject: Methinks…

  L.

  Thou doth protest a LITTLE too much.

  E.

  Again, the reply came fast.

  To: ebbburke@burkeholdings.com

  From: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  Subject: re: Methinks

  Very funny. I sent you that email by accident. So you can ignore it. And stop calling me Lu. That was a typo.

  MIA.

  I whipped up another message.

  To: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  From: ebburke@burkeholdings.com

  Subject: Who spells her own name wrong?

  L.

  Not anyone I know. Oh. Wait.

  E.

  This time, I didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, I went back to her first message. I hit reply, then addressed it line by line, smiling widely as I typed.

  To: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  From: ebburke@burkeholdings.com

  Subject: re: re: Meeting

  Lu,

  I’m both flattered and concerned that you had two pages’ worth of material to use in your resentment of me. I’m also worried that you can’t stand me so much that you’re breaking your own dishes. Maybe try staying away from all fragile objects for the time being?

  I’m kind of glad you didn’t “accidentally” send me the deleted material, though. You know how fragile my ego is.

  I don’t hate you either. As weird as it might sound, I feel a bit like I DO know you. You’re smart and beautiful. You love your family enough that you’re willing to let them treat you like one of those fragile dishes you so carelessly toss around. (I’m genuinely interested in hearing the story behind that, by the way. So I guess you could say I agree. I’d like to know you a little better too.)

  Ethan.

  P.S. Try not to be too sad. The Memory Motel isn’t all that far away.

  I knew the email was bordering on cheesy, but I didn’t care. It was sincere. And truthfully, it just felt good to talk to her. Even virtually.

  Her next response almost made me laugh. I could hear her voice—a little frustrated, a little flustered—in the single written word. I could picture her face too—nose scrunched up, a light flush under her freckles, and her honey-browns flashing.

  To: ebburke@burkeholdings.com

  From: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  Subject: re: re: re: Meeting

  Ugh.

  Grinning, I waited. I knew she’d have more to say, and I wasn’t disappointed. My phone pinged less than two minutes later.

  To: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  From: ebburke@burkeholdings.com

  Subject: re: re: re: Meeting

  By the way. You should be neither flattered nor concerned about the amount of time I spent writing down your annoying quirks. It’s a well-known fact that my high school English teachers referred to me as “verbose.”

  And as it so happens, I was trying to work through some things in my head, and it helps if I write them down. (See what I did there? Now you know something else, AND I got to explain myself.)

  P.S. It’s nice to hear that you don’t hate me. I think…

  Before I even finished reading, my phone sounded again, and I knew she’d just realized what my own postscript said. Sure enough her next email contained the incredulity—though none of the verboseness—I was expecting.

  To: ebburke@burkeholdings.com

  From: mdiaz@trinketsandtreasures.com

  Subject: Wait.

  Did you say MEMORY MOTEL, Ethan?

  L.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. I could picture her face again. Embarrassed that she’d taken so long to really clue in. Complete crimson across her face. Down her chest.

  My laughter faded, replaced by a renewed rush of blood.

  Imagining a woman’s blush
shouldn’t be the prerequisite for a hard-on, I thought.

  It didn’t lessen the truth of it in the slightest.

  I stared down at the screen, and fought an urge to tell her as much.

  Dear Lumia. The slightest thought— No. The slightest hint of a thought of your barely exposed skin is enough to make me want you a thousand times over. Ethan.

  “Very fucking poetic,” I muttered.

  I started to type something else. Then stopped. Then started again. Before I could actually get a word finished, though, the old-fashioned phone on the nightstand came to life. I knew before I even picked it up that it would be her.

  “Hello, Lu,” I greeted teasingly. “Your place or mine?”

  Her breathless reply came right away. “Mine.”

  She hung up the moment after she’d said it, and I was suddenly very glad I’d been such an efficient stalker earlier in the evening.

  * * * *

  Mia

  I froze, staring at the dead phone in my hands, my throat going dry.

  Mine? Seriously? What were you thinking?

  If I’d been able to move, I would’ve shaken my head. The problem was that I wasn’t thinking. I hadn’t expected his greeting. I hadn’t expected to hear my nickname straight off the bat. And of course, in the few hours since I’d seen Ethan, my memory had dimmed the effect his voice had on me. I’d blocked out the way it felt to have him rumble the sexiest of things against my skin. And having him speak right into my ear had brought it all back in a mad rush. Want had slid through me, skidded along my breasts and brought my nipples to attention. It had pooled between my thighs and dampened my underwear. And it had made my brain turn to a pile of mush. So the word “mine” had just slipped out.

  And before I could retract it, my cell phone’s battery had decided to just give up. Completely. Ethan was probably sitting on the other end, trying to figure out what kind of game I was playing.

  I breathed out, trying to calm myself.

  Okay, I reasoned. He doesn’t actually know where you live. Nor does he have this number. So he can’t come here, and he can’t just call back and ask for the address.

  But I no sooner thought it than I decided he would find a way. After all, he’d come from Toronto to Vancouver to find me. What were the chances that he wouldn’t be able to search out my home address? Pretty much zero.

  And speaking of Toronto…

  Why, in God’s name, wasn’t he there? Why hadn’t I asked him that rather than inviting him to my house? I’d used my solitary breath of talk-time to issue something that probably sounded more or less like a booty call.

  I blew out a nervous breath and forced myself to think. I had options. All I had to do was review the simplest ones.

  I didn’t have a landline, but I could plug in my phone and wait a few minutes for it to charge, then call the Memory Motel again.

  Or I could open up the laptop—which I’d impulsively slammed shut when I finally clued in that Ethan was still in town—and type up an email retracting my spontaneous, one-word reply.

  I decided to double up. I’d plug in the phone, and while it charged, I’d send the email. But when I flipped open my laptop, the screen flickered, then went black.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  I grabbed my cell, and saw that it wasn’t charging, either.

  “You’ve really got to be kidding me!”

  Then I groaned as an explanation occurred to me. And sure enough, as I leaned over the couch and followed the length of the extension cord both devices were regularly plugged into, I found the other end dislodged from the wall. I belatedly plugged it back in.

  A glance at the TV clock told me that nine full minutes had passed since I uttered the treacherous word. Most of which I’d wasted by sitting in silent horror. And nine minutes was plenty of time for Ethan to call a cab. A Tuesday night at ten o’clock wouldn’t mean much of a wait. Fifteen minutes at most. There’d be no traffic. Fifteen minutes more to my house.

  I did a quick, mental calculation.

  Fifteen minus nine plus fifteen. That gives you twenty-one minutes—at most—to do…something. Anything.

  The TV clock flicked.

  Okay. Twenty minutes now.

  My phone was only just starting to boot up. My laptop showed no sign of life yet. I jumped up, wondering if it was reasonable to just walk out. After all, wasn’t that what Ethan had done at the restaurant?

  Yeah, sure, I said to myself. Except he wasn’t running away from his own house.

  “Right,” I muttered. “I can’t let him drive me out of my home as he tries to steal my business.”

  The last bit was enough to make me square my shoulders and narrow my eyes. No way was I going to let either of those things happen.

  All you have to do is tell him to go. Preferably while dressed in something other than skimpy pajamas and a satin robe.

  I glanced back at the clock. Seventeen minutes now.

  I jumped up and hurried to my bedroom to paw through my clothes. I didn’t want to give the impression that I’d changed into something else just because he was coming. I needed to be casual. Unsexy. But time and place appropriate.

  “Because I have so many outfits that scream, ‘I’m in charge, but also at home for the night,’” I grumbled.

  Then my fingers brushed over a piece of flannel, and I knew I had the perfect thing. Men’s pajama pants and a big, matching T-shirt. They’d been sent to me by mistake. An online ordering error that I’d never bothered to fix. But Ethan wouldn’t know that. He’d probably assume they belonged to an ex, which would definitely shut down the booty-call factor.

  Feeling triumphant, I yanked the items free, stripped down, and got changed. I surveyed myself in the mirror. My cheeks were still a little too flushed, and my hair a little too wild.

  I tossed a look at my bedside clock. I was down to a nine-minute window of time.

  Quickly, I dragged my hair into a bun, then moved to the bathroom to splash some water onto my face. I finished just in time. A sharp rap on the door—one that screamed of Ethan’s confident nature, and was a full five minutes sooner that I’d calculated—carried all the way from the front entryway to where I stood in front of the sink.

  “All right,” I said to my reflection. “Let’s go get rid of him.”

  I nodded, then marched up the hall and flung open the door, fully prepared to tell him to just turn around and leave. But his appearance—the broad shoulders and dark eyes and mussed-up, slept-in clothes—slowed my tongue. His musky, masculine scent wafted in too, not helping me at all. Even the forlorn-looking plastic bag in his hands slowed me down. So his words came quicker than mine.

  “This is never going to work,” he stated.

  Annoyed that he’d beat me to it, I crossed my arms over my chest. “You stole my line.”

  “Should I apologize?” he asked.

  “I doubt it would help.”

  “Would it help to know that I missed my plane because I was dreaming about you? Literally.”

  I echoed his own question back to him. “Should I apologize?”

  “Hell, no,” he replied. “I’m not complaining.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.”

  “Then let me rephrase.” His eyes burned brightly, never leaving mine as he spoke. “Being inside you. Lying next to you. Tasting every inch of you. That’s what kept me in bed while I should’ve been boarding my plane.”

  I drew in a breath that burned hot in my lungs. “But it’s not going to work.”

  He took a step forward and lifted a hand as if to touch my face, but dropped it to his side again without making contact. “My line.”

  “Maybe. But I thought it first.”

  “If that was your line, why did you invite me here in the first place?”

  “If it was yours, the
n why did you come?” I countered.

  “I thought about that the whole way here, actually,” he replied. “Just about asked the driver to turn around three times. But that dream, Lu…”

  The heat in his tone distracted me from correcting him on the nickname, and my own voice was a little shaky as I made myself answer. “Was just a dream.”

  “More of a memory, really.” His gaze slipped away from my face and slid down my body, and if the fact that I wore men’s pajama bothered him as I thought it might, then he didn’t show it at all. “I want to make you a proposition.”

  The way he said the last word made my toes want to curl, but I kept my voice neutral. “What is it?”

  “Before I explain…tell me something, and be honest. Do you want me to leave?”

  “I don’t want you to. But I know that you should.”

  His mouth tipped up on one side. “Then we’re on the same page. My business is everything to me. I fought for it tooth and fucking nail.”

  “Ditto,” I said.

  “And we’ve established that you won’t budge, and that I won’t back down.”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re in my head. Taking up so much damned space that I don’t know how there’s room for anything else.” His smiled widened. “And that’s a compliment, in case you couldn’t tell.”

  “Thanks?” I posed it as a question, and Ethan laughed.

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “So. Do you want to come and tell me about the, uh, proposition?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m only coming in if you accept.”

  My heart flip-flopped nervously in my chest. “Okay. But if you pull an engagement ring out of your pocket, I’m slamming the door.”

  He laughed again, low and sexy, his eyes dropping to my ring finger for the briefest second. “I think they call that a proposal, not a proposition.”

  “Funny. But it doesn’t change my door-slamming plan.”

  “Then I guess I’d better tell you.”

  “Guess you’d better.”

  His smile dipped for a second, and I realized he might be nervous too. It made me feel the slightest bit better.

  He took a visible breath before saying, “Give me tonight. Let me stay with you. I’ll make it worth your while.”