How To Host A Seduction. Jeanie London
A spacious area that made her feel a little better about sharing her space.
The suite passed muster. Would the surprise roommate? “Hello?”
Still no answer.
Smooth strains of a familiar jazz piece emitted from within the bedroom, and while Ellen silently complimented her new roommate’s musical tastes, she recognized the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. Great. Should she call out to let her roommate know she wasn’t alone? Or close the door?
Ellen hated awkward situations almost as much as she hated surprises. She’d just decided on the closed door, when a pair of Top-Siders beside the bed caught her eye.
Top-Siders?
What woman wore Top-Siders? The thought stopped Ellen cold. The last time she’d accepted Miss Q’s hospitality after Lennon’s wedding, she’d been set up….
Heading into the bedroom, she took in the toiletries on the dresser and the garment bag hanging from the closet door in one glance. She stopped in front of the shoes.
My, what big feet you have, my dear.
Ellen knelt to inspect them, staring at the well-worn shoes as if they might actually launch into dialogue to explain who they belonged to. But in keeping with the theme of solving mysteries, Ellen had already divined two telling clues.
One, that slightly gamey aroma suggested their owner wore them frequently without socks, and two, her new roommate was a man.
Why on earth would Miss Q ensconce her in a one-bed suite with a…
An awful, awful thought struck her when she remembered Mr. Muscle-Butt from the convention. Surely Lennon wouldn’t have colluded with Miss Q when she’d known Ellen wasn’t interested.
I want you to have fun while you’re visiting.
Staring at those shoes, Ellen wished they could talk, because she needed to know if she’d been set up again.
The shower spray shut off, and a quick glance revealed the bathroom door wide open. Whoever was in there—and she desperately hoped it wasn’t who she thought it was—would step out of the shower—naked—and see her.
Ellen had this wild urge to drop the shoes and race out of Félicie Allée, not stopping until she hit the highway. But she just knelt there, shoes in hand, panicked, like a squirrel staring down a two-ton SUV.
The shower door skidded across the track and a hand—definitely male—reached out to grab a towel from a nearby rack.
Then her roommate stepped from the shower.
One gorgeously muscular leg appeared at a time, silky dark hairs shimmering with water, dripping onto the mat. He unwittingly flashed her glimpses of flexing thighs, toned abs and strong biceps as he wrapped the towel around his waist to cover a very nice butt.
He shook his jet-black hair—not waist-length hair that needed more cream rinse than her own, but neatly short hair—sent more droplets flying and turned toward her….
Ellen’s breath and her heartbeat collided.
It wasn’t Mr. Muscle-Butt.
It was him.
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