“What can we do about this?” She was honestly looking for help. If the feelings didn’t disappear, they were going to trip up sooner or later.

Hunter rose to his feet.

“For now, I’m walking out the door. Chantal is already wondering what we’re talking about.”

Sinclair shook herself and rose with him. “Check.” If they weren’t together, they couldn’t give in to anything.

“But later, I need to talk to you.”

She opened her mouth to protest. Later didn’t sound like a smart move to her at all.

“About the spa,” he clarified. “Business. I promise. What are you doing tonight?”

“Painting my apartment.”

“Really?” He drew back. “That’s what you do on Saturday night?”

Yeah, that was what she did on Saturday night. She rattled on, trying not to seem pathetic. “I just bought the place. A great little loft in Soho. But the colors are dark and the floor needs stripping, and the mortgage is so high I can’t afford to pay someone to do it for me.”

“You want a raise?”

“I want a guy with sandpaper and a paint roller.”

“You got it.”

“Hunter-”

“Give me your address. We can talk while we paint.”

Her and Hunter alone in her apartment? “I don’t think-”

“I’ll be wearing a smock and a paper cap. Trust me, you’ll be able to keep your hands off.”

“Nothing wrong with your ego.”

He grunted. “I know you can’t resist me under normal circumstances.”

“Ha!” The gauntlet thrown down, she’d resist him or die trying.

Now that she thought about it, maybe painting together wasn’t such a bad idea. Hunter’s family had bought the company. He was a permanent part of Lush Beauty Products, and the sooner they got over this inconvenient hump, the better. In fact, it was probably easier if they smoothed out the rough spots away from Chantal’s and other people’s prying eyes.

“Seventy-seven Mercy Street,” she told him with a nod. “Suite 702.”