And believe me, I had my qualms about staying here. I mean, the name alone, Kings Resort, felt like some sick joke, especially since I was preparing to deal with the infamous royalty. My staying here is an omen of sorts, but I’m just not sure if it’s a bad or good one.
I stuff my phone into my clutch and check my hair one last time before I leave my room to meet the girls. We’re supposed to have dinner tonight at Nobu, which I’m positive will cost an arm and a leg. I can already feel my credit card sighing at me from within my wallet. I file into the elevator, not surprised to see it filled with handsome men in suits and beautiful women hanging off their arms. If I remember Kat correctly, the owner of the resort chain is throwing some kind of party here this weekend, which means the hotel is filled to the brim with rich uppity people.
Great. Just what I need.
Navigating my way through the crowded lobby, I try not to let the sound of voices grate on my nerves. My phone vibrates in my clutch, and I blow out a sigh, ready to reprimand Kat for rushing me, even though I’m already on my way out.
When I glance at the screen, my heart screeches to a grievous halt, and my mouth goes dry. I swallow thickly, flitting my gaze around the multitude of bodies, looking for a moment of reprieve. I find it in the form of a restaurant labeled The Den that’s blocked off with a “RESERVED—EMPLOYEE PERSONNEL ONLY—KEEP OUT” sign. Saying to hell with it, I sneak past the velvet rope and the sign, finding a small slice of solitude.
With the privacy I need for a conversation like this, I slide my finger across the screen, and my voice wobbles when I say, “Hello?”
“Hi…” The voice sounds surprised I answered. I’m just as shocked. We always let these calls go to voicemail. We haven’t talked on the phone in years; I usually leave voicemails to say what needs to be said.
After brunch with the girls, I finally gave her a call before my flight and left a voicemail. Much like I do every year. Though I didn’t expect to hear back from her. A text message? Sure. A formal email? Most likely. Definitely not this.
“I heard your message. I guess I just … I wanted to see how you were doing.”
I step farther inside the quiet, dimly lit restaurant, taking in how gorgeous and modern the décor is.
“I’m doing fine. How are you, Mom?” I ask. The word mom tastes bitter on my tongue.
“That’s good,” she says quietly, not answering my question. “Are you busy? It sounds like I may be interrupting you. I hope I didn’t ruin your night.” Her voice sounds tired, sad even. And goddammit if it doesn’t make my heart twinge. Of their own accord, my legs take me deeper inside the restaurant, farther away from the vibrant voices in the hotel.
“Uh, yeah. Well, no, you didn’t ruin my night. I was just on my way out with a few friends for dinner and drinks.”
“That’s … wonderful. I … I’ll let you go, Mackenzie.”
For some odd reason, sadness engulfs me. It squeezes my chest in a vise, filling my already battered heart with ice.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Then the line goes dead.
I pull my phone away from my ear and stare down at it, trying to piece together how I feel. Part of me wants to feel angry. How dare she call me like this, after all these years. But the other part of me, the bigger part—the Mackenzie I’ve worked so hard to hide—feels like going home and falling into her arms. Just as I did so often when I was a kid.
She’s my mother, and I love her. No amount of time away from her can change that.
A throat clearing behind me has my heart lurching in my throat and me whirling on my heels toward the source.
“You obviously don’t read very well.”
My eyes widen when they land on the owner of that rich, decadent voice. A man, a very handsome man, dressed in a pristine gray bespoke suit is seated at a table, apparently enjoying a private dinner. Well, that was before I walked in.
“I-I wasn’t … I-I didn’t …” I manage to say in a noncoherent sentence. Not even one minute with this guy, and he’s turned me into the blubbering loser from high school all over again.
He cocks his head to the side, a blank expression on his face. “Not very articulate either.”
His words irk me. “I … well, I …”
He raises his brow in challenge as if I’ve just proven his point.
Well, surprise, surprise, he’s devastatingly handsome and a complete asshole, too. I know his type all too well.
“Sorry,” I mumble, clearing my throat, “I guess I wasn’t expecting to crash in on someone’s dinner, and I certainly wasn’t expecting that person to be such a royal asshole.”
Surprise shadows his features. A small, sexy smirk plays on the corners of his lips.
Good god. That smirk is doing things to my body that should not be happening right now.
His eyes rove over my body, sending a chill down my spine. It’s not an unpleasant chill, though. It’s actually quite the opposite.
“Royal asshole?” There’s a hint of inflection in his tone. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
This time, it’s my turn to raise my brows. “Yet?”
Like gasoline on a fire, his smirk spreads to an all-out smile that has my breath hitching.
“Sit.”
My body jolts at the order—no, the command—but I don’t give in, even if the strangest sensation burning down my spine is begging me to do it. To give in to this darkly handsome man.
“I don’t take orders from assholes.”
My remark makes him chuckle. The sound is raspy, dark, and oh, so enticing. My gaze is riveted to his Adam’s apple that bobs deliciously to accommodate his humor. He’s … gorgeous. Completely gorgeous in a dark, rugged way. His hair is black—not brown or dark brown, but black—and unkempt. The color mirrors mine except his is natural. His chiseled face is reminiscent of a Greek god. His cheekbones are sharp, and his lips are full, and, if I’m being completely honest, extremely distracting. By the width of his shoulders and the build of his upper body, I can tell he’s fit—extremely fit.
Even with all these amazing qualities, I can’t tear my eyes away from something else. His eyes. At the surface, they don’t seem that special, just a deep blue that matches his dark looks. It’s a common blue that would be easy to overlook. His brows are the prominent feature and what people most likely notice. Thick and arched, they darken his expression with heat, but his eyes remain icy, chilling me to the bone.
My legs clamp together as I ogle him, trying to find my voice or another smart remark. Instead, I turn on my heels, ready to leave, but his voice stops me.
“Have dinner with me.”
An electric shock bursts through my spinal column and vibrates in my fingers and toes. Slowly, I glance over my shoulder, and he points at the empty side of the table. “No company. Might as well humor me.”
I open my mouth to say something but snap it shut. I mean, seriously, what the hell do I say to that? I should leave. I need to leave. Go and never come back because this man is so out of my league, it’s not even funny, but for some reason, I don’t. I suck in a lungful of air, pivot, and stride back toward the table, trying like hell not to wobble in these six-inch heels.