“Ryder, you are drunk. Really drunk. Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow.”
I wish he’d gone and trashed a hotel suite with Elliot. I’d rather deal with an irate letter from an unhappy manager than this.
Because this? This is dangerous. And I don’t have to be a genius to know it.
Ryder pulls me close and buries his face in the crook of my neck. His breath fans over my skin, and warm shivers go through me.
“I promise you won’t regret it,” he mumbles. “Make you the envy of the world.”
“Ryder—”
His arms tighten around me, cutting me off. He falls on the bed, dragging me down. I yelp. Somehow he manages to cushion me, then rolls until I’m lying under him.
“Say yes, Paige. I need the painting,” he speaks against my neck.
His hard body presses down on mine, and my skin prickles. I don’t dare say a word because I don’t trust myself to be rational. Not when my brain can’t seem to process any thought except, Oh my god, Ryder Reed is on top of me! Ohmygod, Ryder Reed is on top of me! Ohmygod, RyderReedisontopofme!
I stare up at the white ceiling. Maybe I fell asleep after dinner. This has to be some bizarre, fat- and sugar-fueled dream because he isn’t making any sense. What does marrying me have anything to do with paintings or Julian “fucking” him and his siblings over?
And I’m having this dream because I’m single again, and Ryder has starred in my fantasies more than once. But what woman hasn’t fantasized about him? He’s been voted The Sexiest Man Alive three times. He’s the devil put on earth to test women.
After a beat of silence, Ryder says, “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” There’s no other answer. Besides, he’s drunk. Even when he’s sober, he calls me “babe” because he “can’t remember names.” No way am I taking this seriously.
“Forget I said anything.”
“Are you taking back your proposal?”
He nods, scraping his five o’clock shadow against my neck. It goes straight to my bloodstream, desire pulsing through my nerve endings. Aching warmth spreads through me, and I rein myself in. What the hell is wrong with me? He is drunk. This doesn’t count.
I don’t know how much time passes, but he’s starting to grow heavy. “Ryder?” I poke at him.
He doesn’t move.
“Ryder?” I say more loudly.
He’s utterly inert, but warm and breathing.
Wait… Did he fall asleep?
I crane my neck back to peer at his face. Yup, he did.
I’m partly relieved. Of course he passed out. He drank a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of scotch after all.
With considerable effort, I lever myself out from under him and sit up.
Romance novels I read often describe sleeping heroes as relaxed, approachable and sweet. Ryder is anything but. A frown pinches his eyebrows, and lines of tension bracket his tight mouth. A lock of hair falls forward. I reach over to push it back, then suddenly jump to my feet.
What am I doing? I should know better than to get involved.
I pace. When I was hired, Mira said to focus on Ryder’s flaws if I couldn’t control myself around him, and he has so many, it hurts my head. The man drank a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of scotch in one day!
But he’s rich. It’s like you blowing ten bucks on a drink.
Oh shut up, self! Then he came into my hotel room, uninvited and drunk, and threw the most ridiculous proposal ever in my face.
And then took it back!