That's more like it!

"The hell is this?" I shoot Tristan an irritated look while barely suppressing a laugh: judging by his expression and frozen posture, you'd think he was holding a ticking bomb instead of the fit I'd miraculously procured. "Hotel staff uniform," I reply condescendingly, gesturing at my own black-and-white outfit as if to say, Open your eyes, buddy. "A female uniform, Jaynie!" "So? Are you sexist or something?" Tristan stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. My patience snaps and I roll my eyes at the ceiling. "Shall I remind you why we’re here? The conference has already started, and according to the cleaning schedule, we've got a two-hour window at best. There won't be another chance to get into those rooms today. Or are you willing to sacrifice our mission just because your internalized homophobia—" "Okay, okay! Stop right there." With a disapproving frown, he twirls his index finger in the air, signaling me to turn around. I wasn't going to stare anyway, but first I can't resist flashing him a triumphant smile and wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. At least, I hope that's how it comes across—with my luck, I probably look like a creep. While he changes, I stand to the side, zoning out as I stare at the shelf of cleaning supplies. "Avoid contact with eyes," reads the fine print on one of the bottles. Well, in a sense, that's exactly what I'm doing. "Keep away from children." Yeah, there's definitely nothing for kids to see here either. My gaze drifts along the shelf—anything to avoid thinking about Tristan Knox squeezing himself into a maid’s uniform right behind me. I don't know why I even care. I grew up with a younger brother, and for the past six months I've been living in a dorm with seven guys. It's not like any of them are into crossdressing, but otherwise—there's nothing I haven't seen. Besides, it's Tristan. I don't even like him: too sharp cheekbones, too full lips, and almost colorless eyes—everything about him is too much. His features look like they were assembled from different faces, with all the rough edges left intact... Another label catches my eye, the warning printed in large red letters: "Use only in well-ventilated areas." The cramped housekeeping pantry really is stuffy, and I tug at my dress collar almost reflexively—as if that’s what’s squeezing my throat and making it hard to breathe. "Are you sure there wasn't anything male there?" comes a pained voice. "Or is this some kind of belated revenge?" "What are you on about, Knox? Revenge for what?" I glance back on instinct and see Tristan with his arms raised and the dress pulled over his head as he struggles to get his shoulders through. Before I can look away, my eyes land on his pale, skinny legs and toned ass in black boxers peeking out from beneath the twisted hem. Heat rushes to my cheeks. “You know…” he murmurs, his voice muffled. “Last fall. In the parking lot. When we were rescuing your brother.” "That was like ages ago. Ancient history." "Somehow I doubt you ever forget anything..." Okay, he's got a point. I'll be remembering that "Help you for a kiss" line for a long time—if only because, with that one sentence, Tristan managed to destroy any chance of anything remotely romantic between us. Still, I’m perfectly capable of separating business from personal, and objectively, there isn’t a better partner for our little anti-capitalist revolution. Even so, the fact that he not only remembers that incident but considers it important enough to bring up after all this time makes something short-circuit inside me. Fortunately, Tristan doesn’t seem eager to dwell on it, so I brush it off: "You're blowing this out of proportion. If we don’t get caught, no one watching the security footage is going to suspect you’re a guy." "Well, aren’t you charming?" "What did you expect?" I snort, keeping my eyes fixed on the shelf in front of me. "You're rather... slightly built. And your height—what are you, six feet?" "Five-ten..." "Exactly!" He falls silent, and I start to worry I've gone too far this time. I think about all the big shots gathered at this hotel, flaunting their multi-million-dollar incomes to one another. About those who profit from an unjust system—and who will walk away unpunished yet again if Tristan and I end up fighting because of my big mouth. I’m just about to apologize when a voice suddenly pipes up: "So? How do I look?" I turn around... and for a moment, my breath catches. No joke. I have no idea what I was expecting—maybe that I'd find it laughable or awkward—but definitely not this. The last thing I want to do is laugh, because Tristan doesn't look like a prank victim you'd tease until graduation. No, the plain black uniform dress fits him with an almost frightening rightness. Strangely, it doesn't turn him into a parody of a woman either—quite the opposite. It accentuates everything masculine: broad shoulders wrapped in thin fabric, a sharp Adam's apple above the white collar... Even the angularity of his frame takes on a whole new quality against the dress's gentle drape. But most importantly—there's no unease in his posture whatsoever, as if his earlier protests were a matter of principle rather than shame. It shouldn't look that attractive, but my throat goes dry and my stomach does that warm, flipping thing, like on a roller coaster drop. And once Tristan catches my gaze, a hot, deeply unsettling curiosity sparks in his pale blue eyes. To hide my confusion, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind: "You forgot the apron." "I was hoping you'd help me with that," he admits apologetically, nodding toward his back. "And with the zipper too." "Sure," I say in a pointedly casual tone, and immediately regret my decision, because the moment Tristan trustingly turns his back to me, everything gets exponentially worse. He's managed to zip it about halfway, leaving a small triangle of bare skin exposed at the top—an unexpectedly intimate sight I can't tear my eyes away from. The protruding vertebrae at the base of his neck. Moles scattered like dark paint across a marble-white canvas... Damn, he could be standing in front of me naked, and it would still be less revealing than this. I fumble for the barely visible zipper pull—black to match the dress—and slowly guide it upward. My knuckles brush along his spine. Tristan shudders, and I feel my knees go weak. Fuck. Fuuuck… "Jaynie?" His voice brings me back to reality, and I see him patiently holding out two white apron ties. When I take them from him, my fingers tremble, but on the second try I manage to tie a neat bow. Then he turns around, and I step back to take in the result. The staff wardrobe didn't have anything larger than a size ten, so Tristan's loafers are a lucky choice: they look perfectly appropriate with the uniform dress. The only thing slightly out of place is his unnaturally sculpted curls. Who even talked him into styling his hair like that? Total disaster... "Hold still," I mutter, reaching for his head. But Tristan tenses up—and actually recoils from me, nearly backing into the supply closet. "What are you doing?" he asks warily. "Fixing your hair. For camouflage purposes, obviously." "Oh, I see… Fine." Tristan lowers himself onto an upturned supply crate, where his jacket and pants are already laid out. Now he's sitting below me, his face almost level with my chest. "Just don't pull, please. I have a sensitive scalp." I nod silently and, trying to ignore the piercing look from under his brows, run my fingers through his dark strands, stiff with styling product. A few slow strokes, mimicking a comb—and the tight curls obediently loosen into softer waves. Soon there's no trace of the ridiculous "lamb" look, but for some reason, I don't stop. Tristan’s hair is shiny and unexpectedly pleasant to the touch, and I find myself mesmerized by how smoothly it slips through my fingers. Besides, this slightly tousled look makes him far more attractive… I snap out of it only when Tristan lets out a small sound that dangerously resembles a moan of pleasure. Our gazes meet, and right before my eyes, crimson spreads across his cheekbones. He always blushes so stupidly—like a little kid. But something tells me I probably don't look any better myself. "See? You worried for nothing!" In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood, I give his shoulder a playful shove. "Looking sharp!" "Thanks, Jaynie," he replies with unexpected composure, then suddenly rises to his feet, nearly knocking me over. "So… it seems like we have great things to do?" I nod again—perhaps too enthusiastically—grateful for the chance to finally escape the damn pantry, where the air must be saturated with chemical fumes or something. Wheeling our cleaning carts in front of us, we slip out into the hallway. A single question pulses through my mind: What the hell just happened?!

⊰✫⊱─⊰✫⊱─⊰✫⊱

For starters, we stick to just one floor and split the rooms evenly: odd numbers for me, even numbers for Tristan. It is simple enough—open the door, block the hallway with the cart, find the laptop, plug in the flash drive, wait for the program to finish—and done. Either our plan is genuinely that good, or we’re just lucky, but it turns out to be far easier than I’d imagined. The hallway is empty, the master keycard Tristan loaded onto our phones works flawlessly, and most of the guests have conveniently left their laptops behind. Moving from door to door, we work quickly and smoothly, like we've done this a hundred times, and riding the high of our first success, I almost forget about my inconvenient feelings… almost. Tristan answers my call instantly—as if he'd been waiting for it. "We have a problem," for some reason, I whisper, even though there's no one around. "What happened?" he asks, alarm in his voice. "Did you get caught?" "No. But there’s a MacBook in three-fifteen." "So?" "The flash drive won’t fit!" The phone is still pressed to my ear when a clatter from the door makes me jump. I turn around and exhale with relief: Tristan is squeezing past the cart parked by the entrance, picking up a dusting brush and a rolling bottle of polish that had tumbled to the floor. His other hand holds what looks like a small white rectangle, a short cable dangling from it, ports dark along the edge. “Sorry, I forgot to give you the adapter,” Tristan says, anticipating my question. After a brief pause, he adds, “Since I’m here anyway…” He heads straight for the desk. First, the adapter's "tail" goes into the laptop port, then the flash drive into the adapter—precise, methodical movements. My brain struggles to keep up, because right before my eyes, Tristan Knox—the Robin Hood of the hacker world and self-proclaimed Christian Grey—is breaking into some multimillionaire's computer dressed in nothing less than a maid’s uniform. And looking at him, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m secretly watching something indecent—and, at the same time, utterly irresistible. Is this some kind of fetish? "Remind me what exactly your program does," I blurt out, desperate to stop the flood of obsessive thoughts. "Is it just copying data, or planting spyware?" "Both." The conversation falls flat. After his curt reply, silence settles between us again, broken only by the hum of the processor. This two-room suite is so sterile and boring that there's nothing for my eyes to latch onto—nothing to stop Tristan from claiming my attention over and over. He stands with his palms pressed against the desk, watching intently as the progress bar fills on the laptop screen—as if the outcome depends entirely on the intensity of his focus. And every time he leans forward, lost in thought, the dress that reaches his knees rides up slightly, revealing the line of his thigh… With sheer willpower, I drag my gaze up to his face. Just in time: Tristan tilts his head to the side and bites his maddeningly plump lower lip in concentration. The gesture comes off so petulant and sinful that I want to not just erase but literally tear that expression off his lips with a kiss. Wait, what?! "Checking me out?" I nearly yelp in surprise—he wasn't even looking at me! A strange flutter of nerves hits my stomach, but even though I've been caught in the act, I refuse to cave and shoot back defiantly: "Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?" He laughs, the deep, rich sound a few notes lower than his usual somber tenor. "You'd have to try way harder to make me uncomfortable, Jaynie." "I seriously doubt that... I still remember that fascinating tour of the BDSM club, Mr. I've-Never-Had-A-Sub!" Tristan finally tears himself away from the screen, straightens up, and leans casually against the desk. Once again, I'm struck by his composure: even in the way he stands—shoulders squared, arms crossed over his chest—there's quiet confidence and complete self-control. "What does that have to do with anything?" "Nothing," I snort. "Just felt like putting you in your place. I’m sure I'd find a way to surprise you." Today is shaping up to be a record-breaker for unwelcome memories. Not that the circumstances of how we first met were particularly remarkable. But I learned early on that Tristan Knox isn’t quite as experienced as he likes to pretend. And if he thinks he can make me blush with a couple of snide remarks—well, I've got some bad news for him. Meanwhile, Tristan is watching me for a beat too long, his gaze unusually intent. "Well, at the very least, I'm surprised you agreed to come to LA with me," he says suddenly. "I thought you'd prefer a Venice getaway with James." "Excuse me, what?" I stare at him, dumbfounded. "To hell with Venice! You know how important our movement is to me!" "Well, you picked him over this once, when—" Talk about unwelcome memories: this whole James situation is the last thing I want to revisit right now, and my irritation with Tristan flares up with renewed force. "Oh my God! Just stop!" I cut him off, barely recognizing my own voice—it comes out shrill and almost hysterical. That day, I was supposed to hack James's computer but got a little carried away with seducing him instead. What began as a distraction turned into a full-blown affair that lasted nearly four months—until I finally came to my senses and asked myself what the hell I was doing in bed with someone who embodied everything I despised. And it wasn't even about his ties to the corrupt elite. His patriarchal attitude and cheating habits—that’s what finally did me in. "If you must know," I grind out through my teeth, "James and I are done. So would you kindly just drop it?" Tristan inhales, clearly about to say something else—but just then, a door slams nearby, and heavy footsteps boom down the hallway. "Shit!" I hiss, darting toward the closet by the entrance. "We need to hide!" But my partner in crime doesn’t rush after me. Hunched over the laptop, he flicks an anxious glance from the screen—where the upload window is still blinking—to the door and back again. Panic floods me, and my heart feels like it’s about to leap out of my chest. "If someone sees us..." "The upload isn't done yet." "I don't care! Pull the drive!" While Tristan hesitates, I climb inside. There’s only one lonely suit hanging there, but the space is still tight: a low shelf forces me to crouch, and the coat hangers keep threatening to jab me in the eye. Squatting down, I manage to wedge myself into the most comfortable position possible and am already pulling the door shut when Tristan appears before me, breathless and flushed. He squeezes in awkwardly beside me. The automatic closer kicks in, and the door clicks into place, leaving us trapped together in near-total darkness. Good timing, too: barely a second later, someone enters the room. Without a word, we both hold our breath—and through the silence, a vaguely familiar male voice drifts in, complaining about an abandoned cart and threatening to fine someone. Neither of us moves. A minute goes by. Two. Three. The narrow strip of light seeping between the closet doors is enough to see that Tristan is deeply uncomfortable. Standing in an awkward position, knees bent, he presses himself into the corner—anything to avoid leaning on me. After a moment's thought, I make what seems like the only sensible decision: I pull him toward me. Not because I want to hug him, but because if he loses his balance, we're done for. I hope Tristan understands this too, since our position ends up rather provocative: I'm practically sitting in his lap, arms wrapped around his torso—so close that his heartbeat reverberates in my chest. But that's not even the main problem. Our dresses—both his and mine—have ridden up to our waists, and I suddenly become hyper-aware of our bare thighs pressing together. "I did it," he whispers, almost inaudibly, his breath tickling my neck. "The upload finished." "Shhh," I shush slightly, settling my head on his shoulder and closing my eyes. But trying to mentally distance myself from it all doesn’t work. Not when his overwhelming presence surrounds me from all sides, seeping into every cell of my body: the warmth, the bitter scent of cologne, and the taut muscles beneath my fingers... And certainly not when his growing erection presses insistently against me. The person outside curses. After a moment, there's a slam of the door, the rattle of a cart—and the footsteps finally begin to recede. "I think they're gone," I say, but don't let go. Now would be the right time to push him away. To act outraged. To die of embarrassment, even. But I feel no threat, no pressure—only the warmth of his palms resting gently on my waist, and so in response to his desire, my body throbs traitorously. Tristan slowly turns his head. Our faces so close... "Sorry," he breathes out. "It must be adrenaline." "Adrenaline, huh..." There’s been plenty of adrenaline today. Plus, I'm still pissed at Tristan for reminding me about James. So most likely, my arousal isn’t sexual either, because everyone knows anger can be pretty arousing sometimes... "We should go," Tristan reminds me gently. I feel him starting to pull away, and where our bodies were just touching, an unpleasant chill creeps in. But what troubles me far more is this strange, crushing emptiness rapidly expanding inside me…

⊰✫⊱─⊰✫⊱─⊰✫⊱

As soon as the pantry door slams shut, a motion sensor triggers, and cold electric light flares overhead. Tristan, initially heading toward the pile of his clothes, suddenly stops halfway and turns to face me. "Listen, Jaynie..." He swallows, and his Adam's apple stands out sharply beneath the skin of his throat. "I shouldn't have brought James up. It's not my place. I'm sorry." "You're right. It's not." I narrow my eyes, studying his face suspiciously: something strange is happening, but I can't figure out what exactly. "What even made you think of him? Was it out of jealousy?" "No, it's just..." He shakes his head and rubs his forehead tiredly before continuing. "I was the one who sent you to him. And when he started telling everyone you two slept together, I felt like a complete bastard—as if I’d taken advantage of you." He looks at me with such raw vulnerability, as if he genuinely blames himself. Maybe he should. Maybe he really is to blame for everything going wrong between us again and again. And yet here I am now—standing across from him, looking straight into those blue eyes that, under the fluorescent lights, remind me of ice-covered depths. And as cheesy as it sounds, I find myself thinking I wouldn't mind drowning in them. "Come on, you hadn't— You have nothing to do with it!" My words tangle and catch in my throat from agitation. "I'm a big girl, Tristan..." "Obviously..." "...but either way, apology accepted." "Thank you." He visibly relaxes and even attempts a small smile. "Will you help me unzip?" "Sure. On one condition." I can't believe I'm saying this. Tristan clearly wasn't expecting it either, judging by how his jaw drops slightly in surprise. Though the surprise quickly morphs into a knowing smirk, as if to say, Well played. "And what does Miss desire?" If I had been hesitating before, wondering whether to play it off as a joke, that "Miss" dissolves any remaining doubts: "I'll help you... for a kiss." I think I see his pupils dilate, warm velvety darkness slowly overtaking the icy blue. He touches my chin with his fingers, pulling me closer. I laugh and playfully swat his hand away—but it only turns him on more: Tristan almost growls, and on the next breath his lips crush into mine. If someone had told me this morning that by noon I'd be kissing Tristan Knox in a service room of a five-star hotel, I would've called them crazy. But reality turned out even crazier, because I'm actually enjoying this. We both completely lose it—frantically reaching for each other, tangling in folds of fabric, and exploring every angle and curve of our bodies. When my fingers bury themselves in his hair, Tristan doesn't protest. On the contrary, he lets out a groan, so resigned and hungry that it finally clicks: all this time—with the dress, with the hair, with the zipper—he wasn't enduring it or doing me a favor. He wanted this: to be here, now, under my hands. At some point the lights go out: the motion sensor stopped reacting to us, but the faint light is enough. Tristan presses me against the shelf, and I don't even notice how my leg ends up hooked over his hip, erasing the last inches between us. "God, Jaynie..." he breathes hoarsely, and at the sound of his voice everything inside me clenches with arousal and delight. Suddenly, as if on cue, the door bursts open, and a rectangle of bright light catches us in the darkness, like a pair of startled deer on a highway. I freeze in terror and hold Tristan even tighter, burying my face against his chest. "For fuck's sake!" comes a shout in which I recognize the voice of the front desk manager. "You're fired! Both of you—fired! Pull yourselves together—and I want your asses out of here in ten minutes!" The door slams so hard that the overhead lights flicker back on. My heart pounds wildly, but fear quickly gives way to relief—and even greater arousal. And judging by how desperately Tristan presses his hips against me, the feeling is mutual. "Damn, that was so..." I whisper between fierce kisses that keep turning into bites. "So..." "Epic?" "Something like that..." I stroke him through the fabric of his dress, then slip my hand under the skirt—and Tristan throws his head back, unconsciously offering me his throat. Kiss by kiss I move upward, savoring the contrasts of his body: the soft skin of his neck, the slight roughness of stubble on his cheeks, the sharp angles of his cheekbones... He places his palm on the back of my head, gently massaging with his fingers and slowly pulling me toward him—until our lips meet again. Finally I pull back and look at him—disheveled, his gaze slightly hazy, but completely elated. A nearly predatory satisfaction pierces through me, and I admire him, tracing his flushed lips with my thumb. "So I guess since we're 'fired,' we don’t need to show up for our 'shift' tomorrow?" he asks jokingly. "You tell me." "I'm afraid we do. There's still a second day of the conference. Better try to hit at least half of the remaining rooms." Tristan smooths down his apron and strikes a playful pose, hand on his hip, back arched like a pin-up model. "Besides, we've already got the uniforms." Unable to resist, I land a sharp smack on his ass. "Hey!" For the first couple of seconds he looks shocked, then breaks into a satisfied grin. "Your place or mine?" I ask casually. "Given the circumstances, will you be mad if I tell you I only managed to book one room for the two of us?" Wait a second... I raise my eyebrows in confusion, blinking rapidly. And the next moment I’m practically doubled over with laughter. "Brilliantly played, Knox! I shouldn't have doubted your game..." I admit, wiping away tears of laughter. "Let's get changed already. I hope it's a room with a king-size bed."