I get a pillow to the face in response.

“I’m sure Cal Tech had a lab for sex toys for undergrads to do research,” she groans.

“No. Just Department of Defense-funded robotics labs. But someday, those wireless robots will do amazing things with a tickler.”

She snorts. “Even when we’re not working, we’re thinking about sex, aren’t we?” she says, giving me a saucy smile.

I hold her gaze.

“I mean,” she adds quickly, “sex for work. Sex that sells. Uh — sex that gets women to open up.”

I shove the pillow against my face, laughing too hard.

“Oh, stop! You’re like Zeke.”

“A horny asshole who fucks Uber drivers?”

Carrie gives me a squinty bitchface in return. I deserve it.

“What’s so bad about the bachelorette party?” I ask, switching topics. “Seems like harmless fun.”

She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “You know.”

“No. I don’t.” I’m not part of the wedding party, so I’m not invited to whatever the groom’s doing for a bachelor party, thank God. Zeke and I have plans to lift in the fitness center.

“I work at O,” Carrie says with a knowing grin. “I’m surrounded by hot, mostly naked men all day. A male stripper is just run-of-the-mill. Boring. Like Wonderbread sandwiches.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Really?” Folding my arms over my chest, I watch her as she realizes what she’s saying.

And who she’s saying it to.

“I - I — but — no, Ryan, I don’t mean — I didn’t — I’m not, oh, man.” She’s flustered and adorable. “I’m not saying you’re run-of-the-mill or, you know — ”

“Wonderbread?” I reply, enjoying her adorable awkwardness.

“No! No! You’re not! You’re like artisanal French countryside bread! Gourmet and handmade, fine organic sourdough! You’re the opposite of what I’m talking about!” She’s so damned earnest. Apologetic. Carrie actually thinks she’s hurt my feelings, and that’s what I love about her. The caring. The concern. Authentic and genuine, she’s so real.

Every day, I work with women who can’t get what they need elsewhere. Don’t get me wrong — I love my job.

But there are enough clients who think that they deserve to get what they need from me no matter what — with no boundaries. Time after time, even here at the Inn, I’ve seen it. Off the clock, on vacation, but still viewed as ‘the help.’

Carrie’s the only woman in my life, aside from my mom and sisters, who doesn’t think of me as a tool to be used.

It makes her gorgeous, inside and out.

“I’m sourdough bread? Crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside, made from white goo in a jar that’s left out on a counter to go bad until it bubbles?” I smirk.

“Fine artisanal organic special — oh, stop!” She finally sees my shoulders moving from repressed laughter and hits me in the face with another pillow she tosses, hard.

I pounce. In seconds we’re on the bed, Carrie squirming under me as I tickle her, the skirt of her dress riding up to show off creamy, bare thighs. My lifting shorts are tight lycra, designed for compression and sweat wicking.

Not meant for hiding anything.

“Stop! I give up! Oh, God, Ryan,” she gasps, laughing until she snorts, then giggling with embarrassment. Her attempts to tickle me back are hilariously ineffective.

Until her hand brushes against my erection.

We both freeze.

Panting, I’m half on top of her, bare thigh to bare thigh, our chests rising and falling from exertion and playfulness. Her mouth is inches from mine, eyes asking me a question I can’t quite answer with words.

I answer with my mouth anyhow, kissing her softly. Carrie’s lips part and I’m on her, letting my weight press into her, blanketing her body with mine as she moves her hands up my back, inviting me closer.

The kiss is everything I want, more than I expected and less than I need. I rise up and deepen, her legs moving against mine, her hands on my waist, fingers touching a bare spot above my ass that makes my blood race.

Bzzz.

We both jump, Carrie rolling out from under me, jumping on both feet like a gymnast, grabbing her phone.

“That’s Angela, wondering where I am!” she squeaks, running her hand through her mussed hair.

I can’t breathe.

Don’t leave, I want to say, sitting cross-legged on the bed, trying to make my mind line up with my mouth, my cock stand down from my heart.

Don’t leave, I want to beg as the cool air between us sharpens my senses.

Don’t leave, I want to demand as she grabs her purse and gives me a shaky smile.

“Now you look improper,” I say. “Like someone who was making out with her boyfriend before rushing off to the bachelorette party.”

“Boyfriend,” she says, her eyes narrowing as she says the word. Carrie tilts her head, then takes one step toward me, hesitant. The air shifts, meaning filling the room, and I hold my breath.

I really can’t breathe.

Then she dips her head and gives a sheepish smile. “Geez, Ryan.” She laughs, shaking her head, as she retreats. “You’re really good at this.”

“Huh?” I choke out, confused again, body spinning faster than my mind — if that’s even possible.

“You had me going there for a minute. Boyfriend. Right. Time to go out there and put on a show.”

And with that, she leaves, closing the door softly with a click that is like a bullet being loaded into a chamber.

I shake it off, jumping to my feet, snatching up the hand towel I had on my nightstand, my phone and my cardkey. While Carrie parties with the bride and bridesmaids, I’m going to lift iron until my arms detach at the shoulder joint.

And then do still another set of reps.

Pure exhaustion would be a relief at this point. Danger is everywhere with Carrie now. I’m about to lose my fucking mind and tell her the game is up. None of this is fake.

It’s all way too real.

I get to the fitness center, head for the racks, and load up barbells, curling until my biceps and triceps scream surrender. Zeke’s running late, damn it. I need a spotter for squats.

Doing squats without a spotting partner is like having sex without using birth control. The chance that something will go wrong is slim, but the long-term consequences are forever.