"For just one room?"
"Yes, ma'am."
The bottom fell out of Jilly's stomach. One room. At 9:53. She thanked Maggie, then hung up. Turning to Matt, she asked, "When did Adam talk to you about the Witherspoon account?"
"Yesterday morning."
"What time?"
"Our meeting was at 9:30."
Oh boy. Her meeting with Adam had started at 9:45. Which meant that at 9:53, when the reservation was called in, she was still in Adam's office. Which meant that the travel agency had booked this room at Matt's request.
"Your meeting was after mine," he said, still clutching his wrinkled clothes against his chest. Understanding dawned in his eyes. "I'm guessing this room was booked during the time you were meeting with Adam."
As much as she wanted to, there was no point in denying it. At least he had the decency not to look smug, which surprised her. "Obviously the travel agent made an error," she said. Yeah-like they'd neglected to book her damn room.
"Obviously."
"That's hardly my fault, Matt."
"Nor is it mine, Jilly."
"Well, I'm not leaving."
"Well, neither am I."
They stared at each other for several long, silent seconds, like two suspicious dogs circling each other, vying for the same bone. At this moment, the room was the bone. But, ultimately, Jack Witherspoon and the ARC Software account with all its accompanying perks was top prize. It was a huge career jump, winner take all, and Jilly had no intention of losing. Based on the stubborn set of Matt's features, neither did he.
She glanced toward the window and noted the heavy snow falling. Forcing him to leave, in the middle of the night, in the midst of a snowstorm seemed pretty inhumane. But she couldn't very well share the room with him. There was only one bed. And it wasn't even a king-size. No way was she lying in that not-king-size bed next to him and all that male pulchritude-again. Nope. No way. That scenario had disaster tattooed all over it. In Technicolor. Yet clearly the only way to get him out of this room would involve an atomic explosive, and she was fresh out.
"Look, Matt, surely there must be a sofa or roll-away bed somewhere at the resort you can sleep on."
He lifted a brow. "I asked, and according to Maggie, there are no roll-aways available. As for a sofa, I guess there're some in the lobby, but I'm not about to sleep there-especially not when there's a perfectly comfortable bed right here."
"A bed that's already occupied."
"It's big enough for two."
She opened her, mouth to protest, but before she could utter a sound, he continued, "Don't worry, I'm not one of those guys who thrash around. Hell, I don't even snore. Do you?"
"No, but-"
"Great. Not that it would matter much. I'm so exhausted, even if you sawed wood like a lumberjack it wouldn't keep me awake. Look, there's not much we can do about this mess now, so let's just get some sleep. Maybe we can get the room problem sorted out in the morning." He yawned hugely, then plopped his clothes back down onto the top of his luggage. The sight of all that lovely male bareness momentarily robbed her of speech, and she could only watch as he bent down and pulled a brown leather shaving kit from the side pocket of his overnight bag. He entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a decisive click. Seconds later she heard water running.
"What are you doing?" she called.
"Brushing my teeth."
He emerged a minute later, and walked past her, leaving her to breathe in a whiff of his masculine scent mixed with mint. After pulling back the covers on the far side of the bed, he scrunched up the pillow, then laid down on his side facing away from her.
"'Night, Jilly. Sweet dreams."
'Night, Jilly? Sweet dreams? Was he insane? He didn't look insane, but what did she know? There had to be some inkling of insanity lurking under that masculine exterior if he thought there was a snowball's chance in hell of her being able to sleep next to him. And dream? Not likely. No, she'd stare up at the ceiling, listening to him breathe, remembering what he'd felt like pressed up against her, cupping her breast, hating herself for remembering, and growing more and more annoyed that her presence obviously had no effect on him.
This was what came of concentrating too much on her career and not devoting enough attention to her social life. Nine months, three weeks and eighteen days of celibacy, mixed with a nearly naked gorgeous man was proving disastrous to her ability to keep her wits about her. And this with a guy she didn't trust as far as she could throw him. Thank God she didn't like him or else this situation would be a real disaster.
She gazed down at him, noting that his breathing was already slow and regular. Since she'd made it a rule long ago to steadfastly avoid any activities that could result in jail time, there was no point in contemplating tossing him over the balcony. Besides, based on the heated shivers she'd already experienced, touching him was not a good idea.
She eyed the chintz-covered wing chair near the desk, but decided it was ridiculous to attempt to sleep on it. All that would result in would be a stiff neck, and why should she? This was her room! Maybe it had been booked at his request, but she'd gotten here first. Squatter's rights, and all that. And Matt, drat him, was already asleep. If he could live with these arrangements for the next few hours, so could she.
Switching off the light, she gingerly slid between the covers. Moving as little as possible, she situated herself on her side as close to the edge of the mattress as possible without falling off, facing away from Matt. Once she was comfortable, she blew out a long breath of relief.
There. This wasn't so bad. So what if his beautiful, barely covered body rested less than three feet away? So what if she could hear him breathing? What difference did it make that she could feel the heat emanating off him against her back? Why, she barely noticed.
Yeah right, her inner voice snickered. That's why your heart is pounding, your nipples are hard, and your body feels like it's roasting over a slow flame.
Humph. Why the heck couldn't she be like Matt? He wasn't having any trouble sleeping, a fact which irked her to no end, driving sleep even further away.
She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for sleep, strongly suspecting that that was one prayer destined to go unanswered.
Matt lay in the dark, wide-awake, forcing slow, even breaths into his lungs, but the effort cost him as he was decidedly short-winded, as if he'd run a mile uphill. Instead of falling into the dead sleep that had beckoned less than an hour ago, he felt like someone had hooked him up to a nuclear power plant and flipped the switch. Where the hell had his gritty-eyed, muscle-weakening exhaustion disappeared to?
Stupid question. He knew where it had gone-straight out the window the instant he'd clapped his bugged-out eyeballs on a nearly naked Jilly Taylor. An hour ago he'd thought he was too tired for sex. Ha! Now he couldn't erase the thought from his overactive mind, not to mention his very alert body.
How was a guy supposed to sleep when all that warm, smooth, fragrant, silky, bare female flesh was within reach? Flesh that he'd touched. Molded beneath his hand. Feminine softness that had pressed against him. Damn it, he wanted to touch her again. This time while fully awake.
Why the hell didn't her sleepwear match the sort of clothes she wore to work? Instead of black satin, she should have been wrapped up, chin to toes, in flannel.
Of course, all those carbs and sugar in the candy he'd consumed for dinner wasn't helping the situation. He brightened immediately. Yeah, that's why he couldn't sleep-carbs and sugar. And this slight arousal problem? Just an involuntary body response.