Caught on Camera

Chapter 22, Part 35

Chapter 22

Happy Together

Mickey slipped his key card into the lock to his room in Toronto's iconic Royal York Hotel, held the door for Rachel, and flipped a light switch that activated a desk lamp.

Rachel hesitated, pulse galloping. The last time she'd entered Mickey's hotel room she'd been sure of what she wanted -- him. Given her circumstances, she'd realistically desired one fabulous night together, a fling, nothing more. Months later, his return and apology meant one thing and it scared the pants off her.

He's serious about me.

She entered and cast a trained eye over the upscale room, taking in crisply tailored silk curtains, pristine bedding and designer furnishings. A champagne bottle cooled in a silver bucket on a stand beside the desk. A pool of light from the desk lamp illuminated a platter of chocolate covered strawberries and delightful frosted petits fours.

She kicked off the tortuous spike heels, bounced on her toes over to the platter, and popped a tiny pink iced cake into her mouth. The confection disintegrated in a burst of cotton candy sensation. Heavenly.

"I called ahead and asked for bite-sized cakes to be sent to the room. I remembered how much you enjoyed them at the rehearsal dinner." He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair.

"So thoughtful." Her heart melted along with a mint frosted cake on her tongue. "A perfect ending to a perfect day."

He waggled his brows. "The day's not over yet. May I pour you a glass of champagne?"

She flung herself lengthwise across the bed, then thought better of it and hastily sat up. "Champagne would be lovely." And might calm my nerves.

Rachel scooted off the edge of the bed, switched on the bedside lamps, removed the decorative pillows, turned down the bedspread.

"Hey," Mickey handed her a flute of bubbly, entwined fingers in hers and tugged her over to the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed. "Sit beside me and relax. I didn't bring you here to entice you into having sex."

She raised one plucked brow to call him on that outrageous statement.

He chuckled. "Not right away, then. Let's talk."

"Didn't we cover everything over dinner?"

They'd chatted in the restaurant for two hours over gourmet burgers, sweet potato fries and spinach salad, until the rising noise level drove them out to the street and into a cab to Mickey's downtown hotel. They'd shared their histories, their favorite actors, the movies that made them laugh or cry -- casual conversation anyone might have with a friend. Yet it had been the most soul-baring two hours of her life. The intense focus as he listened. The genuine interest in her opinions. How he seemed to read her mind, anticipate her thoughts.

He cleared his throat. "At the restaurant we never discussed how you feel about us."

She gulped. In her experience, men never wanted to discuss feelings. Show not tell was standard modus operandi.

Noticing her panicked expression, he offered, "I'll start."

She blew out the breath she'd been holding. A sinewy strong forearm slid around her waist and drew her tight. Through his thin shirt, she felt rapid heartbeats vibrate against her side. Mickey's smooth, confident demeanor masked nerves as wired as her own.

"We had a rocky start to a relationship. Instant attraction, at least on my side." He tilted his handsome dark head inquiringly. When she nodded agreement, he continued, "Followed by a huge misunderstanding. I want to start over. Are you game?"