Griffin had woken up in a sweat, his cock aching.
Downright embarrassing. A cold shower had rid him of his erection, but not of the unsettling memories of her mouth on him. Those had lingered, even as he’d dressed himself in the day’s jacket and slacks. His tie hung around his neck, waiting for her to fix it.
And Griffin tried not to picture her standing in front of him, then grabbing the tie and dragging him down for a kiss. Because he wasn’t attracted to her. He wasn’t.
So he tried to tie it himself.
And naturally, he couldn’t. Griffin gave it three tries before he sighed, crossed his hotel room, and went and knocked on Maylee’s door.
“Be there in a jif,” she called out.
He pictured her sliding a bra strap over her shoulder, those frizzy curls brushing her bare skin, and he shifted, uncomfortably aware of his cock hardening. He grabbed his book—a non-fiction brick of a book about the Royal Expedition Society —and held it in front of him.
A moment later, the door opened. Maylee looked . . . different today. Gone was the wretched polyester suit. In its place was a black knit skirt that showed slim, pale legs, those same ugly loafers, and an equally ugly orange brocade jacket with an enormous pin on one side. Her corkscrew blonde hair was pulled into a bun, strands of kinky hair escaping and sticking up at wild angles and making it look even messier than usual. Her eyes seemed dark and her lips were glistening and pink with gloss. Maylee smiled at him. “Yes, sir?”
He gestured at his tie. “Can you fix this for me?”
“Of course,” she murmured, and stepped closer, grabbing the ends.
That had been so very close to his visual from a few moments ago that he nearly groaned aloud, lust flaring through him. He counted backward from a hundred again, trying not to notice that the tip of her tongue poked out between her lips as she concentrated.
“All done,” she said a moment later, and gave his chest a friendly little pat. “See for yourself.”
The front of his shirt still felt warm from her touch, but he went to the mirror and checked. Sure enough, his bow tie looked immaculate. Better, he had to admit, than when Kip tied it. “Very good. Shall we go down to breakfast?”
“Sounds great,” Maylee said. “I’ll just get my bag.” She disappeared into her room and he grabbed his spare laptop. When she returned, she had that ugly saddle purse with her again. He bit back a “Really?” and said nothing. Today, he was going to try and be nice to Maylee. He really was. It wasn’t her fault he was stuck here.
She beamed at him. “Y’all ready?”
He flinched at her twang.
This . . . could be harder than he thought.
As they emerged from the elevator down to the main floor of the hotel, Griffin half-expected to be bombarded with more paparazzi or at the very least, fawning staff.
To his surprise, they made it to the restaurant without a peep, and as soon as they got to the dining room, the maître d’ greeted them with a smile. “Your table is this way, Lord Montagne Verdi.”
Maylee beamed at the man and then gave Griffin an expectant look.
Griffin nodded at him and was surprised to see that a private dining room had been opened at the back. Normally when he visited, he was in the common dining room with the others. Why had he never been separated before?
They sat down and the host poured them two glasses of water and laid menus in front of them. “Your waiter will be by shortly to take your orders. Please let me know if I can get anything for you.” And then he disappeared.
There was no gushing over his title. No “Can I have my picture taken with you?” No diners staring at him as he drank and ate. It was silent, and they were alone.
It was . . . nice.
He looked over at Maylee as she spread her napkin in her lap. She seemed unaware that anything was unusual, but it was clear she was trying hard to please him today. Her ugly brocade jacket wasn’t polyester, for one, and she’d tried to tame her hair. She’d even worn makeup. He stared at her slick pink mouth and that full lower lip that she nibbled on as she set his laptop off to one side and began to boot it.
She was young and innocent, and she was trying really, really hard. It wasn’t her fault she was completely out of her depth. She’d received a phone call from her employer asking her to take a last-minute job halfway around the world, and she’d been stuck with his surly ass. It wasn’t her fault he didn’t want to be here, experiencing a host of social events he didn’t want to attend for a wedding.
But, still. An employer did not apologize to his employee. A viscount certainly did not.