The Life That Mattered (Life #1)(8)

“Your friends left you in my care. I feel responsible.”

I peeled my ass from the chair, already feeling more sure on my feet than Lila. “But are you responsible?” As Ronin loosened his tie like it was ridiculous to have one on after midnight, I snagged my clutch from the table.

“Responsible? Yes. Well-behaved? Sometimes.” He grasped my hand like he owned it.

Again, I felt it in places that a responsible person should not have felt it. “So a sometimes-well-behaved man is escorting me to my room?” I followed him to the elevators, handing him my room card to gain access to my floor.

He didn’t let go of my hand. Not in the elevator. Not down the short hallway to my room. Not when we stopped at my door.

“Tell me about this?” He twisted my left arm, exposing my carbon atom tattoo.

“It’s carbon.”

Ronin chuckled. “Okay. What’s the significance?”

My eyes narrowed. “What’s the significance? Um … only the main element in organic compounds; therefore it’s essential to life on Earth. So … pretty significant.” That came out on way too much instinct and possibly way too many hours in a lab. Closing my eyes, I shook my head. Rolling my lips between my teeth, I stifled a laugh.

“What?” he asked on a slight laugh of his own.

“Wow! I just … went there. Couldn’t play it cool for two seconds before defending carbon’s role in the world like the science geek I was when I picked out the stupid thing and the science geek I clearly still am.”

“Science isn’t sexy” was an original Lila Mason quote and a hard concept for me to remember, not that she had any room to speak. Before she decided on the winged tramp stamp, she seriously considered a long math equation straight down her spine. At the time, she had an insane crush on her multivariable calculus professor.

“Your geek side is adorable.”

My cheeks bloomed with heat. “Thanks. Obviously, it’s effortless too.”

Ronin grinned. “Please thank Graham and Lila again for dinner. I’ve enjoyed every second of this evening.”

I returned a slow nod. He still held my hand in his left hand and my keycard in his right hand. I wasn’t drunk, barely even tipsy by that point. The wine held no blame for my desire to invite him into my room. Had I been home, I would’ve invited him into my house. But houses had kitchens and living rooms. Okay, my suite had both of those things too, but the large king bed monopolized the space, demanding attention. I wasn’t sure I could invite Ronin into my room without doing something impulsive.

Courting and no-sex-until-the-third-date rules didn’t apply to women in their thirties. That made it so tempting to give in to my impulsivity. By thirty, my parents’ generation gave up on my generation going down a straight path: school, love, marriage, children. Thirty and single was the new fifty and widowed. “Poor thing … she’ll be lucky if anyone takes her.”

Sex on the first date in your thirties symbolized a goddamn miracle like the lottery, not a cardinal sin with a ticket to Hell. “Yay! Someone might take her!” Their opinions were not up-to-date. The average age for my generation to get married and start a family breached thirty’s door. However, my parents had two kids in school by that point in their lives, so they compared me to the past, not the present.

Still … I smiled and took the traditional route with Ronin that night. “I had a nice time too. I hope you’re not regretting this in the morning when you’re dragging ass to the airport.”

He winked. “I’ll sleep on the plane.”

“You should stop by my shop when you get to Aspen. Well, wait a week until I’m there. But definitely stop by. No need to buy anything. Just …” Enough with the rambling, I chastised myself.

“What’s the name of your shop?”

“Clean Art.”

He grinned. “Clean Art. Nice name. I’ll stop by as soon as I get there and grab a few things to try. When you return, I’ll give you my unbiased opinion of them.”

No. He couldn’t stop by until I was there. Soapy Sophie, my manager and sole employee, would try to steal him.

He was mine. I found him.

“Really, you should wait for me. I’ll help you pick out the right products for your skin type.”

“What’s my skin type?”

Perfect. It was perfect.

“I don’t want to say. It’s terrible lighting. I’ll get a closer look when I return home.”

He released my hand, bent forward, and pulled his hair away from his forehead, hovering several inches from my face. “Oily? Dry? Combination?”

I returned a nervous smile, wagging my head. “It’s … nice. I’ll find something that will keep it nice.”

His grin swelled, showing a lot of white teeth while keeping his face so close to mine I felt like it would be a waste of bending-over effort to not go ahead and kiss. I mean … he was right there, an evil tempter.

“Nice, huh?” he whispered.

As he started to stand straight again, I grabbed his face, pressing my palms to his cheeks. “But your lips might be a bit dry.” Holy crap! I sounded breathy.

His gaze fell to my mouth. “Is that so?”

My lips rubbed together as if a wave of self-consciousness hit them. “Happens when you’re in the elements so much.” My thumb brushed his bottom lip. It was barely dry. And it was probably the pad of my dry thumb, not his lip.