I open my eyes to an unbearable pounding inside my skull. And immediately squeeze them shut again.
Fuck.
It takes me several seconds to work out where I am. I am lying on the marble floor of Alexander Ashcroft’s bathroom, still wrapped in the enormous bathrobe from last night. It is slightly damp against my skin, my body aches from sleeping on something designed to be walked on rather than used as a bed, and I feel absolutely disgusting. Then my stomach rolls. I barely manage to push myself upright before another wave of nausea hits me. I stumble towards the toilet, brace my hand against the low wall separating it from the rest of the bathroom and empty what little remains inside my stomach. Jesus Christ. Being sick is truly revolting.
I stay there for several miserable seconds afterwards, forehead almost resting against my arm, waiting for my body to decide whether it intends to humiliate me any further. Apparently not. For now. The physical misery is bad enough, but the emotional aftermath of last night is beginning to settle over me too. Why did I let him bring me here? Why did I stay? Why did I drink so much? Why did I do any of it?
I am in a spectacularly bad mood this morning. Once I am reasonably sure I am not going to be sick again, I straighten and drag myself towards the enormous mirror above the sinks. The woman staring back at me is tragic. My hair is a complete disaster. There are dark smudges around my eyes that make me look like a deranged raccoon, and the gigantic damp bathrobe hanging from my body could comfortably accommodate another six of me. Brilliant. I officially look like a loser. A hungover, homeless loser who has somehow spent the night on the bathroom floor of a billionaire’s office.
There is no sound coming from the other room. I stare towards the bathroom door. Has Alex gone? After the way I behaved last night, I cannot exactly blame him if he has. Then I remember how furious he made me. And Andrea. That bloody woman whose name I now know and absolutely wish I didn’t. The thought of Alex dragging me into whatever ridiculous web of relationships and women makes irritation flare through me all over again. Fine. If I have already hidden in his bathroom this long, another twenty minutes will hardly make a difference. I am going to shower. Even if it makes me late for work.
I step beneath the water and stay there far longer than necessary, using far too much of Alex’s ridiculously expensive-smelling shower gel. Of course his shower gel smells incredible. Fresh and clean and unmistakably masculine.
Annoying bastard.
I scrub my skin harder than I need to, trying to wash away last night. I scrub my arms almost viciously when memories of his hands begin creeping back into my mind. Because remembering the way he touched me feels dangerous. Far too dangerous. By the time I step out of the shower, my skin is pink from the heat. I reach for the robe, then stop when I catch sight of myself naked in the mirror. My stomach drops. There are bruises on my arm. Finger-shaped marks where Tom grabbed me. I stare at them for a moment, anger twisting with something uglier inside my chest. My gaze travels lower.
The broken skin at the back of my ankle looks better this morning, although it still stings. The shower has softened it again, leaving it pink and tender. And immediately I am back inside Alex’s car. His hand around my ankle. The concentration on his face as he cleaned the wound. How careful he was. How completely different those hands felt when they were touching me. I look away. Bad idea. Because my eyes land on my neck instead. Oh, for fuck’s sake. There is a mark there too. Exactly where Alex’s mouth was last night. I lean closer to the mirror. Definitely a hickey.
Wonderful.
Just when I thought I might escape this bathroom and pretend Alexander Ashcroft never happened, the man has apparently left evidence. My fingers rise before I can stop them. I touch the spot lightly. And instantly remember everything. The way he pulled me tight against him. Those powerful arms locking around me. The heat of his body. The pressure of his mouth against my skin. That strange, electric reaction that seems to rush through me every single time he touches me. My thighs press together. Oh, come on. A traitorous ache begins between my legs. I snatch my hand away from my neck. I am hungover, bruised, exhausted and standing naked in the bathroom of a man who is technically supposed to become my patient. My body doesn’t get to be aroused. It has lost that privilege. I force myself to move.
I dry my hair until it resembles something vaguely human again. My stomach is still turning and every now and then another wave of nausea threatens to send me back towards the toilet, but I refuse to surrender. I have suffered enough indignity for one morning. There is no second robe anywhere, so I wrap one of the enormous towels around myself instead. Then I realise something even more urgent. My teeth.
If I walk out of this bathroom before brushing my teeth, whatever remains of my self-respect will officially be gone. The continued silence from the office is beginning to feel strange now. Surely Alex would have made some noise if he were still here. I search through the drawers beneath the sink and almost cry with relief when I find one of the hotel’s little dental kits. Five minutes later, I feel marginally less disgusting.
Marginally.
Without last night’s make-up, my face looks pale and exhausted. There are faint shadows beneath my eyes and absolutely nothing remains of the energy I had yesterday morning. How can everything change so completely in one night? I gather my underwear and dress from the floor. Then freeze.
Nounou.
I have forgotten my own dog for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. The guilt is immediate. “Oh, Nounou,” I mutter miserably. At least I can trust Alex where she is concerned. Then I remember screaming at him last night. Hopefully Alex has not abandoned my dog somewhere in London because her mother behaved like a complete lunatic. And now I probably owe him for looking after her too. Even better. I don’t want to owe Alex anything. I want to get dressed, leave this place, go to the clinic and crawl back into my small, perfectly ordinary life.
And the moment I arrive at work, I am cancelling his appointment. Working with him was already questionable considering the attraction between us. After last night? Impossible. This man is genuinely hazardous to my entire nervous system. I take a deep breath and wrap my fingers around the bathroom door handle. Then I open it slowly. Part of me wonders whether Alex will be there. Another part, a far more treacherous part, hopes he is. I immediately tell that part of myself to shut up. The door opens wider.
And there he is.
Alexander Ashcroft is sitting behind his desk, looking every bit as imposing as he did yesterday. Nounou is curled comfortably in his lap. My heart does something horribly inconvenient. Alex is focused on his computer, reading something on the screen while one hand absently strokes Nounou’s tiny head. She looks ridiculously content. Alex looks tired. He has somehow retained every unfair ounce of his attractiveness despite still wearing last night’s clothes, but there is a slight heaviness around his eyes that tells me he did not exactly enjoy a peaceful eight hours of sleep either. The sight of the two of them together does something embarrassingly soft to my insides. For the tiny fraction of time before either of them notices me, I simply stand there and stare. Alex. My little Nounou. Her tiny body curled against his enormous one while he strokes her head without even seeming aware he is doing it. I burn the image into my memory before I can stop myself.
Nounou notices me first. Her head snaps up. Then she launches herself out of Alex’s lap and races across the office towards me. “Mummy’s sorry,” I whisper as she reaches me. Her tiny paws scratch excitedly against my bare legs as she tries to climb me, clearly demanding to be picked up, but with my clothes clutched in one hand and the towel being held firmly in place with the other, that is absolutely not happening. I bend awkwardly and kiss the top of her head instead.
“Hello, baby.”
Alex doesn’t look away from his screen.
“Morning.”
His voice is cool. Flat. Nothing like last night. I straighten slowly. Well, what exactly did you expect, Cait? After the way I behaved, I should probably be grateful he is speaking to me at all. Still. The small, sharp stab of disappointment that hits me is completely unreasonable. Which only makes me more irritated.
“Morning,” I say.
Nothing.
Alex’s attention stays fixed on his computer. Fine. My gaze drifts towards the armchair and stops. There is a dress folded neatly over the back. A clean dress. A pair of shoes beneath it. And beside them, a packet of plasters. I stare at the little packet for a second longer than everything else. He remembered my ankle. My chest tightens in a way I absolutely refuse to examine. After the absolute state I was in last night, after everything I said to him, after shutting myself in his bathroom like a deranged woman, Alex somehow still thought about what I would wear this morning. And my ankle. Bloody hell. I look back at him. Alex doesn’t appear to be experiencing the same softening. Not even remotely.
As if he feels my eyes on him, his gaze lifts from the screen. Just once. Those deep blue eyes meet mine across the room and hold for barely a second. There is no smile. No wicked little flicker. No warmth. Then he looks back at his computer. So this is how we are doing things this morning.
I tighten the towel around myself and walk towards the armchair, my bare feet silent against the carpet. The scrape of Alex’s chair makes me look round. He stands. My breath catches before I can stop it. Then he comes towards me slowly. Good God. Even exhausted, Alexander Ashcroft is an obscene amount of man to have walking directly at you. His shirt is creased from last night, the first few buttons open at his throat. His sleeves are still rolled up, exposing strong forearms, and the faint shadows beneath his eyes should make him look rough. But they do not. They make him look worse. Or better. Unfortunately, much better. His hair is slightly disordered. There is stubble along his jaw. His broad shoulders seem to fill the space between us long before he actually reaches me. He stops close enough to feel, but not quite touching. That is the first thing I notice.
No hand finding my waist.
No fingers sliding across my skin.
No arm pulling me against him as if that is where I belong.
Nothing.
I lift my face towards his. For a moment we simply look at each other. The silence feels heavy after last night. His eyes move over my face slowly, but there is none of that shameless hunger I have already learnt to recognise. Something else sits there instead. Disappointment.
That hurts far more than coldness would have. Standing this close also makes his exhaustion impossible to miss. The faint redness in his eyes. The tightness around his mouth. The slight heaviness in his expression. I cannot stop studying him. I never can. It is becoming ridiculous. Every time I get close to this man, my attention seems to narrow until there is nothing else in the room. It doesn’t matter whether I am angry with him, frightened by him, resisting him or actively trying to convince myself that I never want to see him again. My body notices Alex. Always. I know whatever exists between us is physical. It has to be. But the sheer force of this attraction is becoming impossible to explain. My gaze slips down. And catches on his right hand. The skin across his knuckles is red. Two of them are scraped. My stomach tightens. He hit something. Or someone.
Tom?
I look back at his face. I didn’t want to make you angry, Alex. But you make me completely fucking insane. And, apparently, I am no longer in charge of myself when you do. His eyes stay fixed on me, watchful and unreadable. I’d give almost anything to know what is happening behind that expression. Instead, I turn away and place my dress from yesterday and underwear on the armchair. The question that has been chewing through me since last night rises straight to my mouth. I should probably leave it there. I don’t.
“Why did you come after me if you have a girlfriend?”
Silence. Alex closes his eyes. A quiet breath leaves him. Then a chuckle escapes his throat. There is absolutely nothing warm in it. It sounds almost disbelieving. When his eyes open again, he looks at me as if I have just asked whether the earth is flat. I wait. His face empties again. “I don’t have a girlfriend, Caitríona.”
I blink. What? Then Andrea is...
Oh.
My mouth moves considerably faster than my brain.
“You’re married?” I almost shout.
This time, I actually manage to stun Alexander Ashcroft. His brows lift. He stares at me. I realise my mouth is hanging slightly open and close it immediately. Alex’s expression slowly shifts into one that suggests he is seriously reconsidering my intelligence. I ignore it because I desperately need an answer. I am not walking out of this office with this question still in my head. I know myself. I will dissect it for weeks. Even if I never see him again. Alex draws in a slow breath through his nose. When he speaks, his voice is completely level. Stripped of everything.
“I’m not married, Doctor.”
Oh.
The relief is so immediate it physically leaves my body in a breath. Thank God. I freeze. Thank God? Why the hell am I thanking God? Alex notices. His eyes sharpen almost imperceptibly at the sound of my exhale. For the briefest moment, satisfaction flickers behind all that control. Maybe even arrogance. Then it disappears. His face closes again. And suddenly I hate this version of him. I hate how impossible he is to read. Last night he was all heat. Anger. Hands. Mouth. Possession. Every emotion seemed to live right beneath his skin. This morning, that man has locked himself away. I get nothing. And standing here on the receiving end of the same emotionless mask I gave him last night makes me realise something unpleasant.
It fucking hurts.
The question leaves me before pride can stop it.
“Andrea?”
There.
A reaction.
Something shifts around his mouth. The slightest pull at one corner. His eyes hold mine, and beneath all that fatigue and irritation I catch a trace of that infuriatingly superior amusement. “Andrea manages the hotel.”
A pause.
“She’s also my friend.”
Friend. Lovely.
I still hate her. Completely irrationally. Wholeheartedly. I have spent approximately five minutes in the woman’s company and apparently that was enough for my entire nervous system to reject her. I am absolutely not examining why. Instead, I point towards the armchair.
“Thank you for the clothes.”
His gaze drops. Over the towel. Over me. Slowly. The air changes. Only for a second. But I feel it. The Alex from last night flashes through his eyes so quickly I almost miss him. Then the shutters come down again. He turns away.
“I’m having a shower. Get dressed.”
And that, apparently, is all I am getting.
Fine.
He crosses the room and presses his hand against a panel in the dark woodwork that I had not even realised opened. A concealed wardrobe appears. Of course he has a hidden wardrobe in his office. He reaches inside and takes out a pair of jeans and a pale green polo shirt. Then turns his back to me. My eyes immediately betray me.
The shirt he is wearing pulls across his broad shoulders and narrows over his waist as he walks towards the bathroom, giving me far too much to look at. It is frankly unnecessary. The man is unaware he is putting on a show simply by walking away from me. Which somehow makes the show considerably better. He reaches the bathroom. Tiny paws scamper across the carpet. Nounou races after him and stops at his feet.
Then she looks up.
Oh no.
I know that face. Head slightly tilted. Eyes enormous. Tiny tail wagging. The one that says, I am far too adorable to be denied anything, so you may as well surrender now. Apparently what she wants is to follow Alexander Ashcroft into the shower. And yes. I can officially confirm that my dog is also in love with him.
Also.
My brain slams on the brakes.
Me?
Oh, fuck off.
Alex looks down at her. Nounou somehow manages to make herself look even smaller and more helpless. Traitor. He bends and scoops her up easily with one hand. She settles against his chest as if she has been doing it for years. My heart gives one dangerous little squeeze. Then Alex kisses the top of her head. I may die. He looks down at her expectant little face.
“Oh, don’t start.” Nounou wriggles closer into his arm. His mouth curves. “I know I’m difficult to resist.” She licks his chin. My lips twitch before I can stop them. Arrogant bastard. Please stop charming my dog.
Please.
I already have enough problems. Nounou stares adoringly at him. Oh, brilliant. She is gone. Completely gone. Alex lowers her back onto the carpet and disappears into the bathroom. The door shuts.
A few seconds later, I hear water begin to run. I stand perfectly still in the middle of his office. This is absurd. On Sunday evening, I had never met Alexander Ashcroft. I did not even know he existed. Now I have got drunk in his office, shouted at him, locked myself in his bathroom, slept on his floor, forced him to retrieve my dog from my house and am currently standing here wrapped in nothing but a towel while the aforementioned man is naked under running water ten metres away. The shower continues behind the door. Don’t imagine it. My brain immediately imagines it. Water over those shoulders. Down that chest. Those forearms. Oh, for God’s sake. Apparently my hangover is not severe enough to prevent my brain from producing its own highly inappropriate Alexander Ashcroft shower montage. I rub both hands over my face. What has happened to my life? I have experienced more drama with this man in a matter of hours than I normally manage in an entire year.
While Alex showers, I get dressed. The beige dress fits perfectly. I look down at it suspiciously. How did he even know my size? Actually, no. I don’t want the answer to that. My attention moves to yesterday’s underwear. I pick up my knickers. Look at them.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not putting yesterday’s underwear back on. Which leaves me with one option. I stare at the dress. Then at the underwear. Then back at the dress. No knickers. Fantastic. Going commando in a dress around Alexander Ashcroft. Sensational decision-making, Cait.
I toss yesterday’s knickers into my bag. My phone is still sitting on the coffee table where I left it last night. I pick it up and press the button, expecting it to be dead.
One hundred per cent. I frown. He charged it. My eyes drift towards the closed bathroom door. Why does he keep thinking of things I forget to think about myself? The question settles somewhere uncomfortable. I dismiss it and check my calls. Nothing urgent. I type a quick message to Maya telling her I am running late but should still make it before my first appointment. Just as I send it, there is a knock. The office door opens and a member of staff pushes in a breakfast trolley. The wheels roll softly over the carpet before clicking against the wooden floor near the bar.
“Good morning, madam.”
“Morning.”
He removes the silver covers. Warm air rises from beneath them. And then the smell reaches me. Buttery scrambled eggs. Hot toast. Sausages. Coffee.
My stomach gives a confused little lurch, apparently torn between wanting to revolt and wanting everything on the trolley immediately. Considering the tiny amount of food I managed yesterday made a very unpleasant reappearance this morning, hunger eventually wins. The man wishes me a pleasant day and quietly leaves. I move closer. My mouth is so dry it feels coated in dust. I tear a corner from a piece of toast and chew it slowly. Then I spot the water. Thank Christ. I twist open the bottle and take a long drink. Behind me, the bathroom door opens. I look up.
Mist drifts briefly through the doorway. Alex steps out.
Oh.
Fuck.
The water goes straight down the wrong pipe. I choke. Hard.
My body folds forward as coughing tears through me. Wonderful. Absolutely fucking wonderful. Alex is wearing dark jeans and that pale green polo shirt, and the colour makes his eyes look impossibly blue. His hair is wet, darker at the roots, with little drops of water still caught near his temples. And he smells divine. Fresh. That same shower gel I have just spent twenty minutes trying not to associate with him. My lungs choose this exact moment to stop functioning. I cough again. Harder. My eyes water instantly. Jesus Christ.
I am going to die.
I am going to choke to death on bottled water in Alexander Ashcroft’s office because he came out of the shower looking too attractive. By the time I am gasping between coughs, Alex is already moving.
“Fuck, Caitríona.”
He is beside me in an instant. One arm bands around my waist, hauling me securely against his side, while his other hand rubs firmly between my shoulder blades.
“You all right?”
I cannot answer.
Cough.
Cough.
Possibly death.
“Caitríona.”
His voice changes. The coolness disappears completely.
“Are you all right?”
There is genuine alarm in his eyes now. Real concern. And, God help me, even while I am fighting for oxygen, the sound of it touches something inside me. Eventually, blessedly, the coughing begins to ease. I drag in a breath. Then another. My eyes are streaming. Fantastic look for me. Without thinking, my hand closes around the forearm wrapped across my waist.
I have absolutely no idea why I have spent the last twenty-four hours behaving like a small woodland animal repeatedly wandering into danger. I have genuinely lost count of how many times Alex has rescued me since yesterday. I straighten slowly and turn towards him, still holding his arm. His face is close. His brows are drawn together. Those blue eyes move over mine, searching.
Checking.
Then something changes.
He remembers himself.
His arm slips from my waist. My hand falls away with it. The emptiness is immediate. Stupidly immediate. One second I am surrounded by him. The next there is cool air where his body was. I hate how much I notice.
Say something.
Anything.
“Erm... yes.”
Excellent beginning.
I clear my throat.
“Water went down the wrong way.”
Alex stares at me. Very impressive, Cait. Really showing off that doctorate this morning. His mouth shifts. Not quite a smile. But close.
“Christ. Last night it was whisky. This morning it’s water.”
His eyes move over me once.
“I’m starting to think liquids are beyond you, Doctor.”
A tiny laugh escapes me before I can stop it. There he is. Almost. His tone is still cooler than usual, but something familiar has slipped back into it. Then his gaze drops. To my neck. My smile disappears.
Oh no.
His eyes stay there. I know exactly what he is looking at. Alex steps closer. The space between us closes again. I can smell his shower gel. Clean, fresh, warm from his skin. His hand lifts. One finger touches the mark on my neck. Barely. The contact is so light it should not do anything. My stomach promptly explodes into butterflies. His fingertip traces the edge of the bruise. His eyes follow it. Then rise slowly to mine.
“I should probably apologise for leaving that.”
His voice is low. My breathing slows. He brushes his thumb over it once.
“Problem is,” he mutters, “I like seeing my mouth on you far too fucking much.”
Oh.
My.
God.
The butterflies relocate lower. Much lower. Alex watches the effect land. I know he sees it. Something wicked flickers in his eyes. Only for a moment. Then he lowers his hand. Just like that. And walks away.
Bastard.
He reaches the breakfast trolley, picks up the piece of toast I abandoned and takes a bite.
My toast.
I stare at him. He chews slowly. Looks at me. Then gives the plate a tiny nod.
“Eat.”
Naturally.
I take a forkful of scrambled egg. Oh. That is ridiculously good. Soft, buttery, perfectly seasoned. Either I am starving, or this hotel has somehow done to scrambled eggs what it did to those bloody chips last night. Probably both. I take another forkful.
My attention drifts towards Nounou. My tiny princess is standing beside the absurdly elegant little water bowl that has apparently been brought specifically for her. She drinks. Watching her behave as if this place is already familiar sends a strange weight into my stomach. I push the feeling away and manage another mouthful of egg before my appetite disappears again. Enough. I collect my bag from the armchair. Alex is standing beside the trolley with one hand in the pocket of his jeans, drinking orange juice.
His eyes follow me over the rim of the glass. I pretend not to notice. I reach for the stilettos.
“Don’t.”
My hand freezes. I look at him. He lowers the glass slowly.
“Don’t put those on.”
I glance at the shoes. Then back at him. Alex places the orange juice down and walks towards me. He picks up the packet of plasters and tears one free. His eyes land on the stilettos. His jaw tightens.
“I asked for comfortable shoes.”
He picks one up between two fingers and looks at it with open disgust.
“Not something designed by a sadist.”
I press my lips together.
He turns it slightly, inspecting it as if someone has delivered a defective piece of machinery. “Your ankle is already torn to pieces. What exactly are you supposed to do in these, finish the job?”
He drops the shoe back beside the other. I almost laugh. He is genuinely annoyed. At a pair of stilettos. And for some reason, Alexander Ashcroft standing in front of me in damp hair and jeans, muttering furiously about unsuitable footwear, may be one of the most attractive things I have ever seen. He turns.
“Sit.”
Of course, I cannot simply obey. That would apparently cause me physical pain. I give him my sweetest smile.
“Yes, Mr Ashcroft.”
His eyes narrow immediately. And he corrects me in that low, warning voice.
“Alex.”
Ah.
Look number two, that says I am approximately half a sentence away from finding out exactly how limited his patience is.
I sit. Alex steps between my knees. My entire body becomes very aware of that fact. Then, without another word, he sinks down onto both knees in front of me.
Oh. That does something to my brain I am not prepared to examine.
Alexander Ashcroft.
On his knees.
Between mine.
Don’t. Don’t make this weird. He reaches for my injured foot. His hand closes gently around my ankle, warm fingers wrapping around my skin, and he lifts my leg. He rests my foot across his thigh. My breath catches. His head is bent. Wet strands of dirty blond hair fall slightly towards his forehead. His thumb moves once over the side of my ankle, impossibly careful. He tears open the plaster. For some reason, the tiny sound of paper separating feels absurdly loud. Then he leans closer to inspect the wound. His fingertips brush my heel. It stings. I flinch and instinctively pull my foot. Alex’s hand tightens immediately around my ankle. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop me. Before I can say anything, he lifts my foot. And bends his head. His mouth touches the inside of my ankle. Softly. I stop breathing. It is barely a kiss. Nothing like the hungry mouth that marked my neck last night. And somehow that makes it infinitely worse. His lips remain against my skin for another second. Then his voice vibrates softly against my ankle.
“Keep still, Caitríona.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
My fingers curl into the edge of the sofa. He lowers my foot back onto his thigh.
And I stay perfectly still. Apparently Alexander Ashcroft kissing my ankle has achieved what years of education, discipline and adulthood could not.
Complete obedience.
I watch him. I cannot help it. His entire attention is on the tiny wound. A faint line appears between his brows as he carefully positions the plaster. His thumb smooths one edge down, then the other. Those powerful hands look completely ridiculous doing something so delicate. And unbearably attractive.
His jaw is tight with concentration. His long lashes lower as he inspects his work. How can a man look this fucking good putting on a plaster? He smooths the last edge of the plaster down, still frowning at my ankle like the stupid little wound has personally offended him.
“There.”
His hand slides beneath my heel and he lowers my foot from his thigh. I should move. I don’t. He’s still on his knees between my legs and my brain seems to have abandoned me completely. Then his eyes flick up. They stop.
Oh, no.
I know exactly where he’s looking. I snap my knees together. Too late. His head slowly lifts.
Fuck.
“What?” I ask, far too quickly.
He says nothing. He just looks at me. Then down at my dress. Then back at me. My face starts burning.
“Alex.”
His eyebrows rise. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I am.” Well. At least he’s honest.
He gets to his feet, towering over me again, and I immediately wish he was back on the floor. No, I don’t. What the hell is wrong with me? His eyes narrow as they travel over my face.
“Fucking hell, Caitríona.”
“What now?”
“You drank enough whisky last night to sedate an elephant.”
I glare at him.
“You slept on my bathroom floor, threw up this morning and nearly choked yourself to death drinking water.”
“I’m aware of how my morning has gone, thank you.”
“And now,” he continues, completely ignoring me, “you’re planning to walk out of my hotel without any fucking knickers on!”
My mouth falls open. I want the floor to open. Immediately.
“That doesn’t mean you had to look.”
His eyes darken. “I wasn’t looking.”
A beat.
“Then you moved.”
Oh.
Brilliant. I grab my bag and stand, refusing to look at him. “Well, now you know.”
“Yes.” His voice drops behind me. “Now I fucking know.”
Something about the way he says it sends heat crawling straight up my spine. I turn. Bad idea. He is looking at me with the first real flash of last night in his eyes. His jaw tightens.
“You really are determined to make my life fucking difficult, aren’t you, Caitríona?” I swallow.
“I don’t see how my underwear is any of your concern.” His stare becomes positively lethal.
“Neither do I.”
He steps closer.
“That’s the fucking problem.”
At this point, I appear to be strapped into some emotional roller coaster with Alexander Ashcroft operating the controls, and I would very much like to get off.
I say nothing. Instead, I step back, slip my feet into my new stilettos and head for the door. Nounou immediately switches into follow-Cait mode and trots after me. Behind us, Alex snatches his phone from the desk.
“Wait.”
I keep walking.
“I’m taking you to work.”
I am late. Very late. But I also need to go home first, make myself look vaguely human and, minor detail, put some bloody underwear on.
Oops.
“I can get there myself, Alex.”
I feel him behind me. I turn too quickly and find myself staring directly at the broad expanse of his chest.
Oh.
He’s close. Far too close. “You’re not going anywhere on your own,” he practically hisses. And apparently I’ve lost whatever filter normally prevents me from saying stupid things around him. I breathe him in.
Big mistake.
He smells obscenely good, fresh and warm and unmistakably him, and for one ridiculous second my brain simply stops cooperating. “Why?” I ask quietly.
His brows draw together. “Why what?”
I look up at him.
“Why are you pursuing me?”
Something shifts in his face.
“Why do you want me?” I continue. “Why, Alex?”
He goes still. For one tiny moment, I think he might actually answer me. But this is Alexander Ashcroft, so naturally that hope lasts approximately three mili-seconds. His mouth tightens.
“Probably for the same reason you’re incapable of doing a single thing you’re told.”
There it is. Deflection, Ashcroft style.
“Why can’t you just be honest with me?” My voice rises before I can stop it. He gives me a warning look. My eyes betray me and drop straight to his mouth. Wonderful. Perfect moment for that. I force them back to his.
“Caitríona.”
The warning in my name is unmistakable. And because I know precisely how much it will annoy him, I smile sweetly.
“Mr Ashcroft.”
His jaw flexes. “Alex,” he corrects sharply. “And you’re coming with me.” He opens the door and jerks his head towards the corridor. Apparently this concludes today’s democratic process. I walk past him with his bloody scent still lodged in my head.
The moment he follows, he strides off down the ridiculously posh hotel corridor at a pace apparently designed for men with six-foot-something legs and homicidal moods. I hurry after him in stilettos.
“Alex!”
Nothing.
“I need to go home first!”
Without even looking back, he calls, “And put your fucking knickers on before you go to work.”
My mouth falls open. He doesn’t lower his voice. He doesn’t check whether anyone heard him. Thankfully, the corridor is empty. I may kill him anyway. Nounou races ahead towards Alex, then stops halfway and turns to look at me. Yes, thank you, Nounou. I’m coming. When I finally catch up, I scoop her into my arms. By the time we reach the lobby, members of staff are greeting Alex as he passes while I trail behind him like some deranged blonde accessory he acquired overnight. Why am I rushing? He can bloody wait for me.
Posh bastard.
I deliberately slow down. That lasts until Alex spots Daniel near reception and stops. Daniel approaches him and murmurs something near his ear that I can’t quite catch. Alex listens, gives one short nod, then continues towards the hotel entrance. I follow at a much more civilised pace this time. Daniel notices me.
“Miss Thorne.”
“Morning.”
Outside, Alex’s McLaren is waiting at the end of the burgundy carpet. The valet moves towards us, but Alex dismisses him with a small movement of his hand again and opens the passenger door upwards himself. Show-off. He keeps one hand on the door as I climb in, forcing me to brush against him. My shoulder catches his chest. Heat shoots straight through me. For God’s sake. I settle into the seat with Nounou on my lap, but before I can reach for the belt, Alex leans inside. His body comes across mine. His face passes much too close to my face.
Click.
He fastens my seat belt. Then, as if he hasn’t just scrambled every thought in my head, he strokes Nounou once over the top of hers. Traitor that she is, she looks delighted. Alex walks around the front of the car and gets behind the wheel. He gives me a look that strongly suggests I am personally responsible for every difficult moment he has experienced since birth. Then he starts the engine. And drives like a lunatic.
I thought he drove fast last night. Apparently that was Alexander Ashcroft exercising restraint. Today, restraint has left the building. We tear through the smaller roads towards the motorway without exchanging a single word. Then Alex turns the music up. Some rock song in a language I don’t recognise fills the car. I let it. Anything to drown out the thoughts currently attempting to murder one another inside my head. The song is fast, almost angry, but there is something strangely painful beneath it. I don’t understand a word. Still, somehow, I understand that. I close my eyes and rest my head against the seat. My skull is still throbbing. I’m exhausted. Emotionally, physically and very possibly spiritually. I stroke Nounou slowly, keeping her tucked safely against me. I don’t want her frightened by the speed.
By the time we reach London, the song has changed. My mood hasn’t. Neither has Alex’s. His hands remain tight around the steering wheel. I lose count of the number of traffic laws he potentially violates before we reach my building. He pulls up far too quickly, throws one arm across the back of my seat and twists to look behind us. Then, in one sharp, controlled movement, he parks. But instead of removing his arm, he turns his head towards me. Suddenly, his face is right there, far too close.
“Hurry up. You’re late,” he says quietly, with maddening calm. His mouth is inches from mine. I can feel the warmth of his breath, fresh and minty and dangerously close.
“I can get myself to the clinic, Alex,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow.
“Haven’t you driven me sufficiently fucking mad for one day?” he asks with unnerving calm.
Excuse me?
Was I given responsibility for maintaining Alexander Ashcroft’s sanity and simply forgot to read the contract?
“I can’t let anyone at work see me arriving with you.” His face remains completely unmoved.
“Alex, you’re my patient.”
“I can’t hear you.”
He reaches across me.
Click.
My seat belt releases.
“Hurry up.”
Infuriating man.
I climb out with Nounou and head inside. There is no sign of Brent, although I can practically imagine him glued to his peephole somewhere, watching the whole performance. I rush upstairs. I pull on a fresh pair of lace knickers, because apparently having underwear on might somehow restore the control over my life that I have spectacularly lost during the past twelve hours. Worth a try. My stomach twists. What if someone at the clinic sees Alex dropping me off? I fix my hair, do the quickest make-up job of my life and inspect myself in the mirror. It’ll have to do. As I head downstairs, one thought settles heavily in my chest. I need to tell him.
Friday isn’t happening.
There can’t be a session.
And there can’t be anything else either.
I can’t see him again.
I need to protect my career.
My sanity. Possibly several other vital organs. Because whatever Alexander Ashcroft has managed to do to me in the ridiculously short amount of time I’ve known him, it has gone far beyond attraction. He is in my head. Under my skin. Everywhere. And that is exactly why this has to stop. When I step outside, he is still waiting. This time, he doesn’t come around to open my door. Fine. I climb in myself and fasten my seat belt. The second he sees I’m ready, he pulls away. Neither of us speaks. The drive to the clinic is painfully short. He stops directly outside with the same effortless control he seems to apply to everything except whatever the hell is happening between us. The engine falls quiet.
This is it.
I turn towards him. My courage nearly deserts me.
“Alex.”
He looks at me.
God, those eyes. I force myself to continue.
“We can’t have the session on Friday.”
Nothing.
“I’m grateful for everything you did for me last night. I mean that.”
Still nothing. I swallow.
“But I can’t see you again. Not at the clinic. Not anywhere else.”
There. I’ve said it. And it hurts. Actually hurts. My eyes burn immediately and I blink hard, concentrating on keeping my breathing steady.
Do not cry.
Absolutely do not cry in Alexander Ashcroft’s McLaren after telling Alexander Ashcroft you never want to see Alexander Ashcroft again.
He doesn’t react. But the warm, impossibly blue depths that have been tormenting me since the moment I met him turn glacial. Completely unreadable.
“Cancel it, then.”
Huh?
Cancel it, then?
That’s it? This man’s ability to swing between wanting to control my every movement and behaving as if he couldn’t care less whether he ever sees me again is going to give me permanent psychological damage. And why does his answer hurt so much? What did I expect him to say? Tell me I can’t walk away from him? God help me, some pathetic little part of me clearly did. I look down before he can see the disappointment on my face. There is nothing else I can say. Because the truth is impossible. I can’t exactly turn to him and say, I want you so badly it frightens me. So I reach for the door. My hand closes around the handle.
“Goodbye, Alex,” I say quietly.
The words feel horribly permanent the moment they leave me.
I wait. Just for a second. For him to say it back. He doesn’t. I can’t look at him.
I get out and close the door behind me. For one stupid second, I stand there beside the pavement. Then the engine roars.
The tyres give a sharp protest as he pulls away, and within seconds the McLaren disappears into the London traffic.
Tell me everything in the comments: what was your favourite moment in Chapter 9, and whose side are you on after that ending? 🖤 If you enjoyed this chapter, please like, restack and subscribe. It helps True Affliction find more romance readers, and I love seeing which moments completely ruin you.
A💋
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