‘Oh, okay.’ He walks over to his desk.
I try my hardest to ignore his perfect, jean clad arse as he bends and opens a drawer, pulling out an art pad and a tin of drawing pencils. What’s he got those for? They’re not your average stationary essentials. He walks back over, handing them to me. I accept, tucking them under the tray and making my way to the door.
‘Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?’
I turn, finding his questioning look has morphed into more of a glare. ‘What?’ I ask. I know what, but I’m not in the mood to stroke his ego.
‘Get your arse over here.’ He flicks his head.
My shoulders drop slightly. It’s just easier, all round, if I give him what he wants and get out of his hair. I reach him, trying my hardest to put on a cheerful face. I know I’m failing miserably.
‘Kiss me.’ he orders, his hands draped casually in his jean pockets. I reach up on tiptoes and push my lips against his, ensuring I make it more than a peck. He doesn’t respond. ‘Kiss me like you mean it, Ava.’
He’s not buying my half-hearted attempt to satisfy him. I sigh. I’ve got a tray in my hands, my bag over my shoulder and a pad and pencil buried under the tray. This is proving to be tricky, especially when he’s not assisting. I place the tray and drawing equipment on his desk and delve my hands into his hair, pulling his face down to mine. It takes a nanosecond for him to respond. Once our lips meet, he takes me completely, his arms snaking around my waist as he bends slightly to accommodate our height difference. I don’t want to enjoy it, but I do – way too much.
‘Better,’ he says against my lips. ‘Never hold out on me, Ava.’ He releases me, leaving me feeling slightly dizzy and disorientated. Someone knocks on the door. ‘Go.’ He nods at the door.
I collect my things and leave without a word. I’ve got a proper sulk on. I’m on stupidly dangerous ground here, and I know it. This man has broken heart written all over him.
I open the office door and find Big John waiting for me. He nods, taking up position beside me to escort me upstairs.
‘I know where I’m going, John.’ I offer. He doesn’t have to flank me all of the way.
‘S’all good, girl.’ he rumbles, continuing his long strides besides me to the stairs.
When we reach the stained glass window at the bottom of the stairs to the third floor, I glance up the wide staircase. At the top, there’s a set of wooden doors with pretty circle symbols calved into the wood. They’re closed and quite intimidating.
What’s up there? It could be a function room. I’m distracted from the imposing vastness of wood when I hear a door open. I look over the landing, seeing a man walking out of a guest suite doing his flies up. He looks up, catching me staring. My face flames as I look at John, who’s eyeing up the guy, shaking his head menacingly. A wave of worry washes over the guests face, and I scuttle off through the archway that leads to the extension to try and escape the embarrassing situation. John did not look impressed. Why men think it’s acceptable to exit toilets and hotel rooms still arranging themselves is beyond me.
I let myself into the furthest room. With the lack of furniture, I slide down the wall to my bum.
John pokes his head around the door. ‘Ring Jesse if you need anything.’ he grunts.
‘I can go find him.’
‘No, ring Jesse.’ he affirms, closing the door.
So, if I need the toilet, have I got to ring Jesse then? I should have stayed at home.
Gazing around the shell of a room, I start nibbling at the salmon bagel, which I reluctantly admit is lovely. I try to recall my specification. What did he say? Oh, yes – sensual, stimulating and invigorating. It’s not my normal brief, but I can work with it. I pick up the pad, slide a pencil out of the tin and begin sketching large, lavish beds and sumptuous window dressings. Losing myself in some sketching is the perfect way to divert my mind from the more troubling thoughts that are currently swamping my poor brain.