Chapter 8 8

Constance Hunter did not just arrive; she made an entrance.

The next morning, a convoy of cars pulled up. Constance, a woman in her sixties with hair like a steel helmet and pearls the size of golf balls, swept into the foyer.

Hardin and Elsie stood waiting. Hardin was in the wheelchair. Elsie was standing next to him, her hand resting tentatively on the handle.

"Mother," Hardin said dutifully.

"Don't you 'Mother' me," Constance snapped. She marched over and kissed Elsie on both cheeks. "You poor dear. The press is awful. But don't worry, we bought the boutique's security footage. We're leaking the full version to TMZ in an hour. You'll be a hero."

Elsie blinked. "Oh. Thank you."

"Now," Constance said, turning to Hardin. "About this living arrangement."

"It's fine," Hardin said quickly.

"It is not fine. You are in the West Wing. Elsie is in the East Wing. It's ridiculous."

"We like space," Hardin said.

"You need medical monitoring!" Constance announced loudly. "The doctor said your arrhythmias are unpredictable at night. You cannot be alone in that wing. If you have an episode, who calls 911? The ghost of your grandfather?"

"I have a panic button," Hardin argued.

"Buttons fail. Wives don't," Constance said with a glare that could freeze lava. "Elsie, you are moving into Hardin's suite. Today. You will be his nurse at night. It is your duty."

Hardin looked at Elsie. Do something, his eyes pleaded.

Elsie shrugged. She's your mother.

Moving into Hardin's suite was like moving into a Bond villain's lair. It was all black marble, chrome, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean.

The bedroom was massive. The bed was a king-sized slab of dark wood and grey silk.

"I'll sleep on the sofa," Elsie said, putting her bag down.

"You will not," Hardin said. He was standing now, the door locked. "My mother has cameras in the hallway. If the maids see you sleeping on the sofa, she'll know."

"So what? We share the bed?"

"It's big enough," Hardin muttered. "Just stay on your side. If you cross the middle, I'll push you off."

"Chivalry is dead," Elsie noted.

She went into the bathroom to unpack her toiletries. She placed her bright pink face wash next to his clinical, grey shaving kit. It looked like a neon sign in a graveyard.

Hardin walked in. He saw the pink bottle. He scowled.

"What is that?"

"Face wash."

"It's... loud."

"It's pink, Hardin. It won't bite you."

He reached for it, intending to move it into a drawer. Elsie reached for it at the same time, defensive of her small territory.

"Don't touch my stuff!"

They bumped into each other.

Hardin lost his balance-or pretended to. He stumbled back, pulling Elsie with him.

They landed against the vanity counter. Elsie was pressed against his chest. His arms came around her instinctively to steady her.

The bathroom was filled with the steam from the shower he had just run. It was hot. Intimate.

Elsie looked up. Hardin was looking down. His face was inches from hers.

She felt it again. That heartbeat. Racing.

And something else.

Hardin wasn't leaning on her for support. He was holding her. His hands were firm on her waist. His thumb grazed the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up.

The air shifted. It wasn't about the contract anymore. It was about the man and the woman and the undeniable magnetic pull between them.

Hardin's gaze dropped to her lips.

Elsie's breath hitched. She didn't pull away.

"Hardin..." she whispered.

The sound of his name on her lips seemed to snap him out of it.

He released her abruptly, backing away until he hit the shower door. His eyes were wild, but he forced a mask of coldness over his face.

"Clause Four," he rasped, pointing a shaking finger at the door. "Distance. Keep your distance, Elsie. For both our sakes."

He turned and slammed the bathroom door in her face.

Elsie stood there, touching her waist where his hands had been. Her skin was tingling.

"He wants me," she realized. "He hates me, but he wants me."