…am useless.
“I’m assuming you’ve brought some things with you, yes? For employees on your level we of course provide living space at the resort.”
“I—yes.” Damn it. I want to be smooth. Cool. Collected. But the mere fact of him touching me has scrambled my brain.
We turn left, into another wide hallway with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and take another turn. The elevators.
Roman punches the call button at the same moment that Greg jogs up with a little black envelope that I’m assuming holds the key card to the suite on three.
“Thanks,” Roman says crisply, pocketing the card. “Get some people together. When we’re finished meeting, Ms. London will need help moving her belongings into her residence.”
Before I can protest—and I will protest because the crap I’ve shoved into the back of the rental car does not need to be viewed by other humans—the elevator doors close.
And then I’m in the elevator, alone with Roman Bliss.
It whisks us upward as I try my best not to have a heart attack. Be professional, I remind myself. Be cool. This is rule number one. I stand up tall and face him. “This is too much. I’ll just need a minute to dry off, and then—”
“Take all the time you need,” he assures me, his hand coming around to the small of my back as the elevator doors open.
Why can’t I resist the gentle pressure on my back? It’s so chivalrous, the way he’s guiding me. Totally unassuming. Gentlemanly. It’s a far cry from the cocky jock he was back in school and I cannot take it.
He guides me down the hall to the last door on the right and holds the envelope in front of the lock as he flashes me a smile that makes me feel lightheaded and pleased. “Upgraded last year, for the convenience of our guests. No need to insert anything.”
Roman opens the door and gestures for me to step inside.
And so help me, I do.
“I’ll see you in my office,” he says, and for a moment I’m sure—I see something else in his eyes. Something bewildered, but also…hot. “Whenever you’re ready.”
4
Roman
I need to find Beau and either punch him or give him a raise, because I’ll be damned.
He was right about Genevieve Starlight.
Jenny London is nothing like her.
The girl I used to know in high school mainly dressed in earth tones in styles that looked like made-over things from the 1970s. I have no problem with vintage clothes or the color brown, but she always wore them and she always looked pissed.
I’d catch her staring.
To be fair, I was worth looking at. When I was a senior and she was a freshman, I was in my high school prime and thought I was pretty hot shit. And I was, in the only way that high school boys can be—I played basketball and I was good at it.
She hated me.
It’s not like I caught her mooning over me. I caught her looking at me with narrowed eyes, her expression like she’d just remembered something unpleasant, like a dentist appointment or a chemistry test.
Nobody was more shocked than I was to get an invitation to her open house. She invited all of us. All six brothers. But it was addressed to Roman + Brothers, so I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that.
This is insane.
I stalk back to the elevator and replay the entire thing in my head. There was not one single moment when I let my gaze linger on her wet shirt. It was only a passing glance, really, while I came across the lobby. That’s the only reason I’m so intimately acquainted with the outline of her bra underneath the shirt. And the fact that it’s a fairly sheer bra.
In the elevator I press the button for the lobby and lean casually against the railing on the back wall, pretending to be deep in thought when in fact I’m waging war on the erection that’s threatening to become very visible if I don’t get things under control.
Check that—it is visible.
Over Jenny London.
I think of everything other than the champagne spill on the front of her shirt.
My grandmother carving Thanksgiving turkey. The national anthem. Disney World.
By the time the doors open on the main floor, I have myself under control. At least as much as I’m going to.
Greg, our newest hire for the lobby staff, hovers nervously by the desk. I give him an encouraging wave. “Good work.” He’s already gotten himself a fresh towel and a new tray to circulate. Steve, the maintenance man, is mopping up the spill by the ficus. The grand lobby of our main building, with its soaring ceilings and fresh white paint, is almost restored.
I take a deep inhale and relax my shoulders. Jenny London is my new social media manager, and now I’ve seen straight through her shirt. And fuck, I liked what I saw.
I have to shake it off.
While I survey the lobby, I take stock of how everything looks. How everything feels. The air feels just the right temperature to me. It’s an unseasonably hot June week for Ruby Bay, but I didn’t want to go overboard on the air conditioning. Steve finishes mopping and hustles his gear out of sight. Low steel drum music wafts across the room.
It’s all perfect.
Except for the fact that Jenny London is upstairs in one of our best suites. I have no idea what I was thinking, offering her that room. Something came over me when I saw her standing there, dripping champagne in the lobby. Some animal instinct. Get a room. Not that the room’s going to help her much unless she goes for dry clothes.
Or not. She’s more resourceful than I ever gave her credit for. She’s been out of school for what, six years? Seven? And in that time….
I’m hit with a wave of regret. I was such a prick back then. Clothes don’t make the person. I should have known that. And now, going back over all those memories…was it something else behind her eyes?
The more pressing question is…what was she thinking just now, when she stepped into that hotel room?
Was she thinking of me when she peeled that wet shirt away from her skin?
Did she bite her lip as she lifted her bra from her breasts and—
“Are you all right, Mr. Bliss? Should I bring you some water?”
Greg is at my elbow, peering over at me.
“Fine,” I tell him, and move to clap him on the shoulder before thinking better of it. I don’t want another tray of champagne to go down. “Everything’s fine.”
I’m a fucking grown man. I can handle working with the hottest woman to have ever walked through the doors of the Bliss Resort. I just can’t believe it’s Genevieve Starlight.
One thing I know for sure is that I’m never going to call her that again. I saw the anger move across her face like a thunderclap.
It’s time I got back to the office. She could be down any minute.
My father had a discreet wing built alongside the lobby complex so that everyone who keeps Bliss running can be close to the action. I’m sure he would say that I’m a little too close—that I should hire middle managers and spend more of my time networking with owners and guests. Maybe it’s a little non-traditional, but I have younger brothers for that who’d much rather spend their time with a cocktail in hand, chatting up our members.
The office wing itself is a wide space with a half-moon reception desk at the front. Sarah, the receptionist, looks up at me with a small shake of her head.