Chapter Text
Rey flopped onto the (extremely firm and uncomfortable—ow) sofa with a groan and covered her face with both hands. “My life is a badly written fanfic,” she muttered, then sat up again and surveyed the space. Apparently ‘large studio suite’ just meant ‘big, open room with no privacy except for the loo’ and through no fault of her own (okay, so maybe she should have kept her mouth shut) she was trapped with her (as of nine days ago) boss.
“What was that Niima?”
She stared at her toes, steadfastly ignoring the man currently calmly hanging his clothes in the mirrored closet.
“Nothing, sir,” she mumbled. He paused, and she could feel the weight of his glare from across the room.
It wasn’t her fault.
In fact, if anything, their very specific current predicament was all down to him.
Rey had carefully checked the reservations multiple times, reviewed the confirmation, even called late Sunday and confirmed with the actual on-site staff that they were booked for Sunday night but would arrive Monday morning. Then she called again early Monday morning, several hours before arrival.
She was assured everything was fine, their rooms were waiting.
It was not, in fact, any one particular person’s fault that they arrived to find both rooms flooded by a broken pipe from somewhere above. The hotel staff had tried, desperately, to accommodate them, going so far as to rush-clean and offer to upgrade one room to a junior suite (helpfully described as a large studio suite) and ‘walk’ the other for one night to a nearby hotel, even though that policy was typically reserved for the last arrival after all other rooms were occupied or out of service for the night.
Technically, just not charging for the prior night and honoring their current booking after checked out rooms could be cleaned was all Rey would have expected, and she truly felt for the agents trying so very hard to be of assistance.
It certainly was not, in fact, their fault.
It was, in fact, very much Ben Solo’s fault that he had been completely intractable and unforgivably rude to the front desk agent, front office manager, director of sales, and general manager. It was, in fact, his fault that they nearly got asked to leave the property. It was, in fact, his fault that she had opened her mouth and attempted to smooth things over.
“It’s fine, the other hotel isn’t that far, I can walk back and forth.”
“No, I need you here,” he insisted, refusing to see reason.
“Fine, we’ll take the suite, I’ll sleep on the couch, or the bloody floor if I have to!”
Mr. Solo glared, and she watched as his hands clenched into fists and his jaw worked. She returned the angry gaze, pulled her own shoulders back and crossed her arms over her chest. He looked away first, then slapped his credit card and ID down on the high counter.
When he signed the paper registration form, the pen ripped through the page at the edge of the signature box. He took the keycard and grabbed his bags with the other hand before he stormed off to the elevator.
The front desk agent stared at Rey with wide eyes and handed her the second key envelope. “Ma’am, are you sure you’re okay?”
Rey glanced at her boss, angrily punching the elevator button, then back to the worried hotel staff. “It’s fine. He’s all bark, no bite,” she said, offering a wan smile. I hope. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
“Same,” the clerk said, then flinched and looked around. “I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have, um…have a good day. Please let us know if you need anything.” Rey nodded, managed what felt like a more natural smile, and turned for the elevators.
Mr. Solo was standing in the middle of the room when she entered, hands on his hips and mouth pursed.
“This is not a suite.”
Rey swallowed hard, looked around the room. “Sure, it is. A studio suite, they called it. More square footage…larger than my flat…” He turned slowly, one eyebrow quirked, but mercifully kept his thoughts to himself as she dragged her own suitcase to the corner opposite the bedroom—well, no, the alcove containing the very large and inviting California King bed.
“This is wildly inappropriate,” he mumbled, depositing his suitcase on a little folding stand he retrieved from the closet.
As was your behavior downstairs. She stopped herself before she said it, concentrated on slipping out of her shoes and jacket before she dropped onto the sofa. “I can still go to the other hotel. Even if they won’t pay for it now. Just for one night, and it’s only a block.”
He stared into the depths of the (admittedly shallow) closet. “What I said stands. I need you on site.”
He grabbed another suit still wrapped in dry cleaner’s plastic but on a heavy, wooden hanger from the garment bag he’d apparently packed inside his suitcase and placed it in the closet.
Rey flopped back and frowned at the absolute lack of give to the cushion. She was bloody exhausted and wouldn’t get a chance to rest for several more hours. All she wanted was a hot bath, maybe some wine and an orgasm or two, and four or five hours of uninterrupted sleep. She’d be lucky to wash her face then change out of her travel rumpled suit and into a suitcase creased one. She blamed the exhaustion for letting her little fanfic observation slip, and just hoped he didn’t ask for an explanation.
“I left you space,” he muttered as he tucked a small toiletry bag under one arm, then pulled a second much larger that she suspected was one of those hanging style that she’d seen makeup enthusiasts rave over. “I’m just,” he added, angling his head toward the bathroom door. He paused just inside the doorway, glancing to the left and uttering a string of expletives.
“What is it?” Rey asked, scrambling up and across the room. “What’s wrong?” She stumbled to a stop, just shy of slamming into his broad back, when she saw the rest of the room. The sink and vanity were visible from the doorway, as was another door leading to the standard shower/tub combo and toilet, but to the left, where she had expected a wall, was an enormous, two-person tub with jets and ceiling high mirrors on the three walls around it. “Oh, wow,” she muttered, mouth suddenly dry. “Maybe I’ll just sleep in here.” He glanced at her, just long enough for his silent scrutiny to make her have to fight not to squirm, then marched over and placed the smaller bag on the counter and unzipped the larger. Rey bit her lip to hold back a cry of triumph when he hung it on a little wall hook, revealing a compartment for full size bottles and a series of bulging mesh or clear vinyl zippered pockets.
He leaned forward, hands on the counter, and glared at the sink. Rey backed out of the room and nearly ran to her suitcase, lowering it to the floor so she could flip it open. She stared at the ratty packing cubes and thanked Rose for her foresight in suggesting a travel bag for the vibrator which Rey absolutely would NOT be using during the trip. The image of Ben’s broad back blocking the mirror and his hands gripping the granite countertop flashed through her mind and she squeezed her thighs together for a moment. Nope, she would certainly not be unpacking that particular item.
Unfortunately.
She heard a soft click and turned to see the main bathroom door closed. Shrugging, she began to unpack her work wear. Just one night, and normally she wouldn’t bother, would just hang whatever was on top in her suitcase by the shower in the morning, but Mr. Fancy-pants would probably have a conniption. She draped a fresh blouse, light gray cardigan, and the least wrinkled skirt over the back of the sofa and slung the remaining mix and match pieces over her arm before she edged closer to the closet. Plenty of hangers, since Mr. Solo had brought his own, but they were the annoying hotel ones that had to be disassembled then worked back onto the permanent metal rings on the closet bar.
Rey huffed in frustration and tossed her armful of clothing onto the bed so she could use both hands to fight with the hangers. She was so busy cursing at the one that simply refused to come free that she didn’t hear him come back out, not until he chuckled. She yelped in surprise, then froze in place, standing there inside the closet. “Having trouble, Ms. Niima?”
She fought not to shiver at the low, amused tone. “It’s stuck,” she mumbled, releasing the offending hanger and backing out until the mattress bumped against the backs of her thighs. He didn’t laugh again, didn’t even say anything scathing, just retrieved the hanger and passed it over, watching as she grabbed tomorrow’s trousers and attempted to fold them over the hanger. She managed, on the second attempt, then reached for the pullover top, and finally her jacket.
She finally glanced up once the outfit was collected on the hanger, and he seemed to be in pain. “I…it’s um…that’s not…” he frowned and sighed then grabbed the hanger. Rey held firm, and his nostrils flared. “It’s not going to—”
The black trousers slithered to the floor.
“—stay.”
Rey released the hanger, leaving him holding the (very crooked) blouse and jacket as she bent to retrieve her pants, not thinking the action through until she realized she was kneeling in front of the man—her boss—almost close enough to brush against…oh, no.
Mr. Solo cleared his throat and stepped back, then reached out for the pants. “Please,” he said, and maybe because she knew how much that word had cost him, she handed him the bundle of fabric and leaned back, watching as he calmly put everything together neatly, hung it in the closet, and smoothed the fabric. She stood again and picked up the next items on the pile. He held out an expectant hand, and Rey found herself wordlessly passing him the next blouse and trouser combination. He paused and frowned at the blouse. “This needs ironing,” he said, handing it back.
She scoffed and he looked at her again. “It’s fine, I’ll steam it when I shower.”
He looked at the blouse, then back at her. “Don’t plan to take your jacket off when you wear it, then.” Rey just rolled her eyes when she turned away to grab the final outfit: skirt, shell, and cardigan. She swallowed hard when he grabbed the hanger with attached pins and hooked them on the waistband of the skirt, thick fingers deftly manipulating the clips. He hung the blouse and cardigan together and looked at her again. “Is that it?”
“Pretty much, other than the jacket I wore for travel.”
“You only brought clothes for three days? Between the training conference, the local client meetings, and next weekend’s convention we’re here a week and a half, Niima!”
“It’s called a capsule wardrobe. Mix and match, all machine washable. There is a coin operated laundry in the hotel, and I have a couple other shirts in my bag as well, but since I should be getting my own room tomorrow, I figured I should just hang the ones most likely to wrinkle.”
“And the cocktail reception Friday? Drinks with clients?”
“The itinerary specifies business or cocktail attire, and I do have a dress, for what it’s worth. It’s still in my suitcase, and I don’t see how it’s any business of yours what I do and do not wear beyond the fact that I remain professional enough not to discredit the company.”
“I…okay then, sorry.” Mr. Solo shook his head and glared at his own feet. “Right…” He stepped away from the closet and rubbed a tired hand over his face. “We have an hour or so, before the first session. I’m going to…” he trailed off, gesturing at the bag containing his laptop.
Rey nodded, made a non-committal hum, and crossed back to her suitcase, still splayed open on the floor. She didn’t want to do anything to disturb the odd peace between them for the moment.
An hour. A whole hour. In a tiny suite with a very large man. She grabbed a few more things from her suitcase and fought the zipper until it closed. It wouldn’t sit up so she turned it around to lean against the wall.
She glanced at her watch, a department store purchase using a friend’s discount when she got her signing bonus a few months back.
Before she ever even met Ben Solo…before he brooded his way into being her boss.
Fifty-seven minutes.
He’d want to be at least fifteen to twenty minutes early, probably thirty.
That left twenty-seven…no, twenty-six minutes to fill.
Twenty. Six. Entire. Minutes.
Trapped in a room with her broody, massive, extremely hot boss.
She grabbed her own laptop, scrolled through her email, checked the group and direct chats with the rest of the team still in the office, glanced at the time on the task bar: twenty-three minutes.
She picked up her mobile, scrolled quickly through personal messages and email, cleared social media notifications (nothing worth seeing anyway). The little time indicator on the screen showed another eighteen minutes.
She glanced up, to where Mr. Solo sat on the bed, shoes off and ankles crossed, mouth pursed at his laptop and a stray lock of hair creeping ever closer to his eye. Her fingers actually twitched with the urge to brush it away. Rey practically launched herself from the uncomfortable sofa, snatched up the outfit she’d left out, and carried it to the vanity. A second trip for underthings and toiletries and she locked herself safely in the loo.
Sixteen minutes.
Face washed, teeth brushed, minimal make up reapplied.
Twelve and a half minutes.
Hair brushed and pulled back neatly once more.
Eleven minutes.
Stockings and garters, lacy bra and knickers (matching set with the garter belt because it made her happy).
Eight minutes.
She sighed.
Shirt.
Skirt.
Cardigan.
Another (unnecessary) swipe of tinted lip balm, another pass of her hand over her already smooth hair.
Five minutes.
She sighed again and turned for the door, a startled yelp escaping when she opened it to Mr. Solo, his hand raised to knock.
“I was just going to check…how long,” he said, looking down, to the left, over the top of her head. Anywhere but at her. “Just need my shoes and bag,” she said, gesturing to the coffee table and the messenger style tote she used for her work laptop and other materials.
He nodded, stepped aside, and nodded again as she passed. “Go save our seats, second or—”
“Second or third row, left side, unless they have us in the room where that’s by the windows. I remember.”
He frowned, then offered a sheepish half-grin that made her clench. “I’ll meet you down there.”
The door closed as she stepped away. She heard the water and his fancy rechargeable electric toothbrush as she packed her laptop. More water and a splashing noise as she reached the room door. She wondered if he was shaving and mourned the hypothetical loss of the dark stubble that had dusted his upper lip and chin by the end of their travel.