a three-hundred-pound meathead with a hideous-looking scorpion tattooed on his scalp.
But come on already— country music?
Oblivious to the drama unfolding in the hallway, the cowboy sang on, this time about a prison dog. His rich baritone didn’t miss a note. Clearly, her beating on the connecting en suite door hadn’t fazed the crooner in the least. Heck, she’d even unlocked the darn thing and tried to rattle it, but it was locked on the other side.
Crapola .
Visions of tabloid headlines ran through her mind: Sophie Morelle Caught in Hotel Hallway , Tipsy , Wearing Wrinkled Blouse and Odd Shoe Combo . Not exactly a smooth transition to comeback queen.
She thought about the empty miniature vodka bottles lined up neatly on her nightstand. Going on a well-deserved bender had been a horrible idea. All Willie Nelson’s fault , too . Relax and regroup? Yeah, right, it’d been impossible to recover and quietly lick her wounds with that ruckus. She glared at his door.
Now what?
She could have sworn the tequila bottle did a little I-can-help-you wiggle beneath her armpit, similar to what the vodka bottles had done earlier.
The elevator far down the hallway sounded.
Sophie had no choice.
It took three solid raps for the music to be lowered and precious seconds to tick by before the door was opened. But when the crooner’s fingers found her elbow and tugged her inside the darkened entryway, she let out a small squeak of surprise.
“Damn persistent thing, aren’t you? Thought I told you we’re over?” a husky voice murmured, his warm breath on her ear. “One more night, sweetheart. That’s all I’m promising,” the sexy, familiar , voice added. Instantly, every mismatched emotion she’d ever felt for Caden Kelly surfaced—fear, discomfort, loathing, mortification...lust—which shot off the charts a second later as she took a gander at his broad naked chest.
Oh , my .
The expression “you could bounce a quarter off it” certainly applied to the broad, cut muscles on display before her.
“Quiet for a change, huh? Good. Nice way to end things. I’ll take that. Get over on the bed before I change my mind.”
She grabbed the tray tighter as he drew closer. Reaching over her head, he shoved the door closed.
“What’d you bring me, honey, breakfast in bed?”
She froze, breathlessly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Caden to realize his mistake.
What was he doing in the room next to hers anyway—aside from singing? And apparently sex , lots of sex.
The receptionists. Ugh. They’d mixed up the keys. No wonder her room was more upscale than a standard. Would Sal even notice his less-than-stellar digs? She tried to step back, away from the caress of Caden’s fingers on her elbow. Her balanced faltered. The pitcher capsized and a small tsunami of orange juice splattered the fighter’s abdomen in a direct hit, sending a cascade of juice running down along his gorgeous six pack and lower, coating his crotch and legs in a sticky, orange mess.
“Jesus. What the hell...” Caden reached behind her and flicked on the foyer light.
Sophie balanced her weight on her one pump, trying to steady herself. Watching teardrop-sized pebbles of orange juice slide down his chest. Waiting, breathless, for the angry outburst sure to come.
She bit back her own irritation. Typical—this was entirely the panty-dealing, wannabe cowboy’s fault.
They both opened their mouths to speak, but an angry male voice from out in the hallway interrupted them. “Are you sure this is her room?”
“That’s what the old timer was grumbling about. Look, Jaysin, why don’t you let bygones be bygones? The hole in your hand’s healing up nicely. Don’t tell me a little hurting like that still has you pissed off?”
Sophie shuddered. Jaysin Bouvine was the last person she expected at her door. What the blazes did he want, another round with her one working heel?
“Lady’s got a potty mouth. Didn’t you catch her show?
But come on already— country music?
Oblivious to the drama unfolding in the hallway, the cowboy sang on, this time about a prison dog. His rich baritone didn’t miss a note. Clearly, her beating on the connecting en suite door hadn’t fazed the crooner in the least. Heck, she’d even unlocked the darn thing and tried to rattle it, but it was locked on the other side.
Crapola .
Visions of tabloid headlines ran through her mind: Sophie Morelle Caught in Hotel Hallway , Tipsy , Wearing Wrinkled Blouse and Odd Shoe Combo . Not exactly a smooth transition to comeback queen.
She thought about the empty miniature vodka bottles lined up neatly on her nightstand. Going on a well-deserved bender had been a horrible idea. All Willie Nelson’s fault , too . Relax and regroup? Yeah, right, it’d been impossible to recover and quietly lick her wounds with that ruckus. She glared at his door.
Now what?
She could have sworn the tequila bottle did a little I-can-help-you wiggle beneath her armpit, similar to what the vodka bottles had done earlier.
The elevator far down the hallway sounded.
Sophie had no choice.
It took three solid raps for the music to be lowered and precious seconds to tick by before the door was opened. But when the crooner’s fingers found her elbow and tugged her inside the darkened entryway, she let out a small squeak of surprise.
“Damn persistent thing, aren’t you? Thought I told you we’re over?” a husky voice murmured, his warm breath on her ear. “One more night, sweetheart. That’s all I’m promising,” the sexy, familiar , voice added. Instantly, every mismatched emotion she’d ever felt for Caden Kelly surfaced—fear, discomfort, loathing, mortification...lust—which shot off the charts a second later as she took a gander at his broad naked chest.
Oh , my .
The expression “you could bounce a quarter off it” certainly applied to the broad, cut muscles on display before her.
“Quiet for a change, huh? Good. Nice way to end things. I’ll take that. Get over on the bed before I change my mind.”
She grabbed the tray tighter as he drew closer. Reaching over her head, he shoved the door closed.
“What’d you bring me, honey, breakfast in bed?”
She froze, breathlessly waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Caden to realize his mistake.
What was he doing in the room next to hers anyway—aside from singing? And apparently sex , lots of sex.
The receptionists. Ugh. They’d mixed up the keys. No wonder her room was more upscale than a standard. Would Sal even notice his less-than-stellar digs? She tried to step back, away from the caress of Caden’s fingers on her elbow. Her balanced faltered. The pitcher capsized and a small tsunami of orange juice splattered the fighter’s abdomen in a direct hit, sending a cascade of juice running down along his gorgeous six pack and lower, coating his crotch and legs in a sticky, orange mess.
“Jesus. What the hell...” Caden reached behind her and flicked on the foyer light.
Sophie balanced her weight on her one pump, trying to steady herself. Watching teardrop-sized pebbles of orange juice slide down his chest. Waiting, breathless, for the angry outburst sure to come.
She bit back her own irritation. Typical—this was entirely the panty-dealing, wannabe cowboy’s fault.
They both opened their mouths to speak, but an angry male voice from out in the hallway interrupted them. “Are you sure this is her room?”
“That’s what the old timer was grumbling about. Look, Jaysin, why don’t you let bygones be bygones? The hole in your hand’s healing up nicely. Don’t tell me a little hurting like that still has you pissed off?”
Sophie shuddered. Jaysin Bouvine was the last person she expected at her door. What the blazes did he want, another round with her one working heel?
“Lady’s got a potty mouth. Didn’t you catch her show?
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