The reckless rider is standing a few feet away, almost unrecognizable in a tuxedo—or most of one. The jacket is impeccably tailored, sitting perfectly across his broad shoulders. But the pants underneath are wrong: too short and in an off-shade of black that doesn’t match the top.
That strip of sock and ankle the pants don’t cover would be comical if his expression wasn’t so thunderous.
His dark hair is disheveled, falling across his forehead in that artfully messy way I noticed before. And his cold gray eyes, intense enough to match his arrogance, flare with aggravation.
“Did you follow me?”
“Why would I follow you? To get run over a second time?”
His jaw tightens. He takes a step closer, limping slightly. I hope his leg hurts as much as my feet do.
“Then what are you doing in my hotel?”
His hotel?
I look at him—at the ill-fitting pants, the aristocratic bone structure, the entitled set of his shoulders—and then at the gold lettering above the reception desk that reads Rockwood Resort, and finally at the R mirrored on the monogram on his cufflinks.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I’m cold. I’m exhausted. My feet are destroyed, my phone is dead, and I have nowhere else to go.
And this cocky, rude, annoyingly attractive man owns the only warm bed within hobbling distance. And he’s looking at me like I’m a stain on his pristine lobby floor he needs to wipe out.
4
LIAM
Despair crosses her face, so stark and unguarded that my first instinct is to look away. But the hopelessness is quickly replaced by a set jaw and determined eyes. Her gaze, narrowed and furious, flicks again from my face down to my exposed ankles and the wardrobe malfunction she’s directly responsible for.
Her bare feet are planted on my marble floor, filthy wedding dress dragging behind her, shoes sullying the counter.
Half the lobby has stopped to stare.
I need to get her out of sight fast.
“So?” I prompt when she doesn’t reply.
“I was trying to check in.” She gestures at Adam with barely contained frustration. “Your concierge wasn’t being helpful. I was about to ask to speak to a manager, but the owner will do even better.”
I glance at Adam, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, then take her elbow—gently, despite my irritation—and pull her aside, away from the growing audience of curious guests. “You’re not checking into my hotel.”
Her head jerks back. “You can’t refuse me a room.”
“We’re fully booked,” I lie.
“Bullshit,” she spits. “That’s not what Adam said.”
“I’ll call the car back,” I offer. “It will take you to any other hotel you want. But you need to leave my lobby.”
She seems thrown back at that. “You sent the car?”
“Yes,” I hiss. “Who else? But it wasn’t supposed to take you here.”
“Where then?”
“Wherever the hell it is you were going.”
“Well, I was coming here.” She pouts.