“Don’t,” I tell him.
“What?”
“Don’t make it sound like I’m slumming it,” I tell him.
“I’m not. But I’ve never known you to go to New Orleans and not stay at Hotel Monteleone.”
Sighing, I rub my hand over my forehead as I try to decide how much I want to get into this with him right now. “Well, I went there originally, but when I walked in...I don’t know. I guess, I was just looking for something different. I’m so sick of the Kensington standard, you know?” I can say that, because he does know. Without me explaining the specifics of this particular argument with my father, Shep knows the basics. It’s something we’ve talked about a lot over the years. “When I walked in and the doorman recognized me, I just bolted. I’m trying to get away from my father, not be in a place where people are going to ask me about him every day of my stay. Plus, if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t want him to be able to track me down.”
“How’d you find this place?” he asks, chuckling to himself. “Damn, this program they’re using is ancient. One of the first hotels my father bought out when I started working for him after college was using this, or I wouldn’t have a clue how to find my way around. Has she thought about upgrading to new software? That would take care of all of her problems, plus she’d have so many more options.”
I laugh. “Well, this isn’t really an option kind of place.”
“Does she run a different program for keys?”
“You mean the extra-large bronze one that’s currently poking into my ass right now?” I ask, pulling the bulky thing out and turning it over. Not only is the key large, the key ring is a large wooden fleur de lis with the Blue Bayou engraved on it.
“Real keys?” he asks incredulously.
“How did she put it?” I muse, smiling to myself. “She likes antiques.”
Shep laughs. “Doesn’t like change or spending money, collects antiques. She sounds like my grandma.”
“She’s definitely not your grandma.”
“Send me a picture.”
Standing out of the chair and walking over to get a closer look at the picture hanging on the wall, I take in even more details of Carys—her long golden legs, carefree smile, and a few freckles on her nose and cheeks. The frame next to the photo is of an older man and woman with a baby. On a second glance, I recognize the front steps of the hotel and realize they’re standing in front of the doors of the Blue Bayou. A plaque on the bottom of the photo reads “Blue Bayou—where folks are fun, and the world is ours.”
I want to know more about you, Carys Matthews.
“Fuck no, Shep. This one’s all mine.”
Chapter 6
Carys
Hurrying down the street, I nearly drop my grocery bags. I spent too much time talking to CeCe, my friend at the nearby coffee shop, and I told Mary I’d be back to the hotel by noon so she could run her own errands.
I should’ve known better. CeCe and I always find a million things to talk about, and this morning I was so excited about how smoothly the front desk was running that I had to tell her about Maverick and his friend Shep and the magic they worked. It hasn’t worked so flawlessly since I started running the hotel on the daily. I’ve always known it needed upgrading, but that word freaked me out. To me, upgrade equals money, but Shep knew about a hotel management software that’s user friendly, current, and surprisingly cheap. It was more money than I had to spend, but an investment worth making because I can already tell it’s going to save me days of frustration. With Jules coming on to help with the front desk, it’s like I can finally see the light at the end of the very long, dark tunnel I’ve been walking down for the past year and a half.
“Shit!” Just as I make it to the breezeway leading to the front door, the handles of one of my bags rips and groceries start rolling everywhere. Quickly, I get down on my hands and knees and start collecting the items in my arms to save them from the street. Looking around, I realize they’ll never fit in my other bag, so I stuff what I can in there and then take my cardigan off, laying it on the ground to use as a bundle.
I can make this work.
Just call me MacGyver. Carys MacGyver.
A low chuckle catches my attention and slowly I look up to see none other than Maverick Kensington standing a few feet away, arms crossed, leaning against the side of the building with a bag of his own hooked around one arm. The smile he’s giving me makes my knees weak, so for that, I’m thankful I’m not standing.
And with that thought, my mind begins to spin, heading straight for the gutter like it always does when he’s near.
“Need some help?” he asks, cocky grin still in place.
“Nope, got it covered,” I tell him as I begin to tie the arms of my cardigan and stand, dusting off my pants.
“Mess,” he says with another chuckle.
“What?” I heard him, but for some reason, I ask anyway.
He smiles, kicking off the wall and stalking toward me. “Mess,” he repeats and then pauses as he looks down at my feet and then back up to my eyes. “You. Are. A. Mess.” Each word is pronounced emphatically, and it makes my stomach flip.
Now I’m the one laughing, but it’s the result of nerves because his smile combined with the stalking has my breathing labored. “Yeah, I’ve been told that before.”
“A hot mess, emphasis on the hot, but a mess nonetheless.” Without asking again, he frees me from the makeshift bag and we both begin to walk toward the front door of the Blue Bayou.
“What did you buy?” I ask, needing to say something to fill the space between us, or maybe in an effort to create some space between us, because it feels like he’s coming on to me. I mean, I know he is. I might be blonde, but I’m not stupid. And I might be busy and preoccupied, but I’m not oblivious. At first, I thought it was just my wishful thinking, but last night, before he retired to his room, he asked me if the hotel had turndown service. It was a joke, but I could tell by the way he looked at me, he wasn’t kidding.
The scary part is that I almost took him up on it. I had to force my feet to walk to my apartment, instead of upstairs to his room. I’ve never done anything like that before, never even entertained the thought. But I guess there’s nothing illegal about it. So what if I own the hotel he’s staying in? It’s not like I’m his doctor and he’s my patient, although I wouldn’t mind giving him a thorough examination.
Not helping, Carys.
“Stopped at the hardware store down the street. I was at a bookstore a few doors down and thought I’d stop in there on my way back to see if they had a knob for the office door. I noticed it was missing.”
I pause with my hand on the door and just stare at him. “You didn’t have to do that...or don’t have to do that. George has been meaning to fix it, but he just hasn’t got around to it yet.” I can’t explain what I’m feeling because there’s such a whirlwind taking place inside me. It’s hard to decipher one emotion—fear that I’m doing everything wrong, shame that someone else is coming into my hotel and fixing problems, overwhelmed with everything that needs to be done, and last but not least, relief that Maverick wants to help.