After dusting, I make my way into the kitchen and start to clean. Of course, Dicklan left his dirty dishes out just two feet from the empty dishwasher. I bet he’s never loaded one in his life.
I replace the cover on the fruit bowl before putting it back in the fridge. Nabbing the dirty fork and empty coffee cup, I turn toward the dishwasher.
“You can leave the cup out,” I hear from behind me.
I usually don’t startle easy, but the deep voice that belongs to Declan Blackwood is right behind me. He’s so close I feel his breath on the back of my neck. It’s bare because I pulled my hair into a bun, which the job requires.
I whirl to find six-foot-five inches of solid, practically naked, muscled man. His hair is wet and slicked back, water droplets on his shoulders. As I do a quick rake down past a ridged abdomen, I follow a dark trail of hair starting below his navel and snaking down to a minuscule white towel around his waist.
There is no missing the bulge—not an erection—just a lot of big stuff beneath that towel pressing against the damp confines.
My face flushes hot as I whirl back around. “Of course, Mr. Blackwood.”
Dicklan.
“Can I have my cup please?” he asks. I’m surprised to hear “please” come out of his mouth. He certainly doesn’t have to use it with me.
At that moment, I realize I have the mug and dirty fork clutched to my chest like a maiden who’s never seen a half-naked man before.
Because I have.
But not one like the Blackwood heir.
Holy cow, he’s hot.
Beyond hot.
Is he really packing that much… size… beneath that towel?
I take in a breath, pivot back his way, and hold the cup out while resolving to maintain eye contact.
For a moment, he merely studies me, seeming to pay close attention to my face—surely noting the stain of blush still there—before asking, “What’s your name?”
I try to give the man some credit. My name tag is pinned to my chest. He could have looked himself, but maybe he didn’t want me to think he was staring at my breasts? He could just be lazy, not wanting to make an effort. Perhaps he is just demanding.
“Bailey, sir,” I reply demurely. “Bailey Robbins.”
“Hmm.” Not even a ‘pleased to meet you’. Just a low hum in his throat as if he found my name slightly interesting, but he couldn’t be bothered to form a polite reply.
Finally, he takes the cup out of my hand. I immediately move to the far side of the kitchen to wipe down the counters. Blackwood moves to the espresso machine and brews another cup, but I refuse to look his way. It’s with relief that he takes his brewed cup and moves back into the living room, supposedly on his way back to his bedroom to put on some damn clothes.
I finish scouring down the counters, sink, and stovetop, then wipe the fronts of the cabinets and fridge. Just as I’m finishing, I hear Blackwood on his phone, voice coming from the direction of the living room. I move to the left, enough to see inside, and oh my God… he’s still in a towel, but now sitting on the couch.
And when I say sitting, I actually mean sprawling.
Long, muscular legs stretched out and slightly spread, not enough I can see under that towel, but enough to spot a dark shadow between his legs. If he were to spread them any farther, he’d give me a show. He has one arm casually draped over the back cushions, the other holding his phone before his face.
He has it on speaker, and I recognize the voice of a young woman I’ve heard him converse with before. It’s one of his employees in the executive office.
Just great.
I’m at the point I’m ready to vacuum the living room floors, but I clearly can’t do that while he’s talking on speakerphone. With a sigh, I move my cart back into the living room, unhooking the vacuum from its slot on the side. Because I have other duties to attend to after his suite, I hope my display makes him realize he’s preventing me from doing my duties. Blackwood doesn’t spare me a glance, though.
Dicklan.
Like a dolt, I hover, wondering if I should interrupt him. I’m hesitant to do so because, well… I need this job.
Blackwood issues orders so quickly I feel bad for the woman if she’s taking handwritten notes.
When he finishes, he says, “Is there anything else we need to discuss before my next call?”
After a slight hesitation, the woman finally says, “Um… there is, actually.”
“Make it quick,” Blackwood orders.
“The fundraiser for the Canterbury Art Center this weekend,” she starts. I’m not sure if he hears it in her voice, but I do. She’s terrified to say what she needs to.
Obviously, he has no empathy because he snaps, “Well… what about it?”
“The venue is too small to accommodate all the people who have RSVP’d,” she mumbles.
I’m surprised Blackwood actually allows emotion on his face, but surprise and fury emanate from him. “Let me get this straight… The venue I had you book over two months ago—for a specific number of people—is too small to handle the guests? Why in the hell are you just now telling me this, three days before the event?”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” she says. While I can’t see the woman, I guarantee she’s quivering. I can hear it in her voice. “But you specifically requested this venue. And, um, well, I didn’t want to go against you.”
“Fucking great,” Blackwood snaps. “My goddamn assistant can’t manage to think for herself or have an original idea in her air-filled head. Once you realized the problem, did it ever occur to you to bring it to my attention in enough fucking time for me to handle it, since you clearly couldn’t be bothered to do so?”
Ouch. I feel sorry for the woman. She did fuck up, but I suspect Dicklan is such a dick to work for that she was afraid to say anything. Still, she should have pointed it out well before now. He would be pissed, but he’d have had the time to do something about it. Cringing, I wait, already suspecting what he’ll say next.
Declan Blackwood doesn’t disappoint. “Your services are no longer needed at Blackwood Hotels and Resorts. Pack up immediately.”
Without another word, he disconnects the phone. He taps it against his chin, apparently deep in thought. Aloud, he murmurs, “Just where in the hell am I supposed to find a venue in Vegas for a hundred and fifty people with only three days’ notice?”
I have no clue what this fundraiser is for. What I do know is I like Declan Blackwood even less now than I did before that phone call. That was extremely harsh, even if the woman had clearly screwed up.
To my great surprise, I start to speak, though I don’t know why I’m helping this jerk. “The Desert Rose Country Club has more than enough space in their ballroom. They were supposed to have a big legal convention in it this weekend, but it just got canceled.”
Slowly, Blackwood slides his gaze over, pinning it on me. “And you know this how?”
“A couple of nights a week and on the weekend, I’m a blackjack dealer there. At my table last night, a few attorneys who were scheduled to attend were griping about how the event was canceled because the convention’s sponsor had just gotten arrested for tax evasion.”
His eyebrows shoot up. It annoys me how my mind immediately decides they’re great eyebrows. Thick but arched to perfection. On the one hand, they make him look sly. But on the other, they make him appear ridiculously intelligent. It only adds to his overall allure. “They were griping about a boring legal convention getting canceled?”