“Right. Of course.”
The room suddenly feels very small. I turn toward the window to give him privacy, but I can hear the rustle of fabric and the soft sound of cotton hitting the floor. I concentrate hard on the view of snow-covered trees, focusing on anything except the fact that Mitchell Drake is getting undressed just three feet away from me.
“Okay,” he says finally. “Your turn.”
I turn around and immediately forget how to form words.
He’s standing by the bed in just his boxers, and I feel as if I’ve never seen a man’s torso before. His chest is broad and defined, with just the right amount of hair trailing down abs that look like they were carved by someone with exceptional taste and a lot of patience. There’s a scar along his ribs—probably from hockey—and his skin looks warm and touchable.
“Clare? You okay?”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring. Heat floods my cheeks. “Uh, fine. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t look convinced, but he moves toward his bag to grab a T-shirt. The space is so tight that he has to angle sideways to get around me, and as he does, my breast brushes against his bicep.
The contact sends electricity shooting through me, and from the way he sucks in a breath, I can tell he felt it too.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move away. We’re standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin and smell that clean, masculine scent I’ve come to love.
I should step back. Should give him space. Should remember that this is all pretend.
Instead, I look up at him.
His eyes darken, pupils wide, and the raw look he gives me sends my pulse racing. For a moment, we just stand there, caught in each other’s gravity.
Then he clears his throat and takes a step back.
“I should...” He pulls the T-shirt over his head, and I try not to mourn the loss of all that gorgeous skin. “Maybe I should take a cold shower.”
The admission slips out rough and honest, and something dangerous uncurls in my stomach at the realization that I affect him the same way he affects me.
I can’t help the soft laugh that escapes. “That bad?”
His smile is rueful, self-deprecating. “You have no idea.”
The honesty in his voice and the way he looks at me—like I’m something he wants but can’t have—shifts something between us, creating an invisible line we've been dancing around all day.
I grab my pajamas from my bag—thank God I packed the cute ones instead of the ratty oversized T-shirt I usually wear—and slip into the attached bathroom to change. When I emerge, Mitch is already under the covers, lying stiffly on one side of the narrow mattress.
The bed is even smaller than it looked. There’s no way we can both fit without touching.
“This is cozy,” I say, trying to lighten the mood.
“That’s one word for it.”
I slide under the covers, hyper-aware of every point of contact: my shoulder against his arm, my thigh brushing his, the warmth of his body in the confined space.
“Mitch?”
“Yeah?”
“This fake thing is... maybe not all bad.”
He goes very still beside me. “No?”
“No,” I whisper into the darkness. “Not all bad.”
His hand finds mine under the covers, fingers threading together with an intimacy that has nothing to do with performance and everything to do with the growing recognition that maybe, just maybe, we’re both in more trouble than we thought.