Chapter 6
6
Natalie
I walk slowly back to the lodge and my room while I contemplate my fate.
Apparently I am going to spend at least a month and possibly a whole summer working with a guy who in the space of half an hour went from being my ultimate sexual fantasy to my worst nightmare.
This should be fun.
By which I mean, this sucks.
I could quit.
I maybe should quit?
Except I have no place to go. No place to live. And no money with which to remedy the situation. No couch to crash on, unless I want to beg Lloyd or my parents.
My parents have never approved of the fact that I didn’t go to college, my choice of careers, or pretty much anything else about me. In fact, the one thing they think I’ve ever done right is dating Lloyd.
I don’t even want to tell them that he and I broke up.
And at the end of the rainbow (or shit show), there is a pot of gold. A ten-thousand-dollar raise, no rent for a year, and guaranteed housing as long as I have the job.
Which means I’ll be able to save for a degree or certificate; pick a lucrative, stable career; and finally stop being the fun-times girl, the slacker daughter, and the woman who can’t quite get her shit together.
So. At least for a while, until I have enough money to be choosy, I’m going to be working with Mr. Asshole.
I take the elevator up to my room and hold my keycard to the touchpad on the door. It beeps and lights up green, and I turn the thick brushed-nickel doorknob and admire my new surroundings. I checked in yesterday, and I still haven’t stopped gawking at the space.
Cream-colored walls. Exposed beams. Big, hewn-wood trim, including huge split-pane windows. A rustic armoire, a butter-soft brown leather arm chair, a Persian area rug, gorgeous kilim pillows. And the bed! Queen sized, with thick rough-cut head- and footboard, a luxurious cream-colored duvet, heaps of pillows, and a cozy-looking woven-wool blanket.
I didn’t get a chance to unpack yesterday, so I take out my phone, cue up my favorite good-mood playlist, jam my wireless earbuds into my ears and start unpacking. I hang some clothes in the armoire. I toss my cosmetic bags onto the bathroom counter and stop to admire (again) the deep soaking tub and big-headed rain shower.
Free! I mean, long term, I’ll be in a cabin, not the lodge, but still. For someone who thought she’d have to wait tables at three jobs to pay for school, this is…pretty damn amazing.
I toss T-shirts, underwear, and PJs into the dresser. I stack a few thrillers neatly on the nightstand. Big Bob and Mack, my vibrators, go in the nightstand, too—Big Bob’s cord curled up, Mack’s glittery purple shaft nestled in his black velvet carrying bag. I treat my boys right.
I look at my watch. Just enough time to call for room service. I reach for the hotel room phone and order a steak salad and glass of wine. The woman on the other end of the line tells me fifteen to twenty minutes.
While I’m waiting, I could take a quick shower, get in my PJs, and start a new book. Get my mind off the events of the last week. Lloyd. Mr. Asshole. The fact that I have a week to come up with ten programs and test them out at a family party.
Just then, though, “Try Everything” by Shakira comes on. This song always makes me want to dance. It’s my girl-power anthem, for when I’m feeling like I need a lift.
Time for a pump up.
I wiggle my hips. Do a little shimmy, setting the girls in motion. For better or for worse, and it depends on the day, my bra size delves deep into the alphabet, so there is plenty of motion. I grab the tall floor lamp and execute a pole maneuver. Okay, so floor lamps aren’t intended for pole dancing, but I’ll make it work.
Whew. I’m already sweating. I was in pretty good shape when I was working at the nursing home. I always took the stairs, never the elevator, and did a lot of active stuff with the residents. But since then, I’ve been spending too much time sitting at a desk combing through job listings and tweaking my resume to try to get results. I shed my socks, and then—okay, what the hell, I’m wearing a bra—tunic, too. Now I’m in just cropped black leggings and my favorite bra—black, plenty of support, but also loads of lace and frills.
I’m starting to feel more like myself.
I decide maybe I need my favorite party shoes. Hot-pink, spike-heeled, closed-toe sandals. They look great with tight, ankle-length jeans, but for now, they’ll be fine with leggings.
YES.
I close the two tiny clasps and admire the strappy pink result.
Walk the Moon’s “Work This Body” comes on, and perfect .
My hairbrush is a microphone, the lamp’s my pole, this room is my court where I will beat whoever it is fair and square ( Lloyd ) and?—
Damn. The ache is back.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. I turn the music up one more notch. I eye the desk.
It looks pretty sturdy.
I use the ottoman as a step, and?—
Now I’m not in my room. Instead, I’m dancing on a bar in my spiky hot-pink heels. Mirror behind me.
I have my earbuds jammed in and my eyes closed, which is why it takes me a while to notice that?—
Preston Hott is standing in the door of my room.
He’s carved out of long, lean, well-proportioned muscle, which is more obvious now because he’s taken off his suit jacket and draped it over the suitcase behind him, and his hand is frozen on one partially rolled sleeve. My eyes are drawn there tractor-beam style because that is quite possibly the best forearm I have ever seen. His tie is loose now, his hair rumpled—and holy shit, if he looked good buttoned up, he looks even better now.
Except I know he’s the devil.
Plus he’s caught me dancing on a hotel desk. And as previously noted, there’s lots of me on display. Not to mention the spiky heels, the high drama lip syncing, the general bouncing, and all the fuck you I’m powerful gestures aimed at Lloyd.
Plus, mirror behind me, so: double view.
My cheeks go red hot.
Okay. Two options here.
Die of embarrassment, or…
Try my damnedest to play it cool.
I jam the pause button, tip an earbud out, and slide myself down from the bar—desk—with as much dignity as I can muster.
“I guess you’re not room service,” I say, managing a pretty convincing laugh. Because…well, it’s a tiny bit funny, right?
Preston is definitely not laughing. He’s scowling so hard it looks like he might break something. And as I watch, he reverses direction and rolls the sleeve back down, covering that delectable well-muscled, golden-tanned arm. As if to say, This is not a situation where I can afford to relax.
It makes me feel even more exposed. I scan the room for my top, but it’s behind him, on the bed, and somehow it feels worse to let him know that I give a shit that he’s seen me mostly naked.
“What are you doing in here?” I ask.
“They gave me this room key.”
“Well, it’s my room,” I say.
“There must’ve been a computer glitch and they thought it was empty. I’ll get another. Sorry to interrupt your—” He gestures in the general direction of my body, turning away as he does.
Thanks, dude.
“Dancing,” I say. “I was dancing .”
Then he looks back. “You’re going to ruin that desk.” His voice is deep and cultured and as chilly as the mist rising off ice.
My eyebrows go up. “Excuse me?”
“It’s not made for wearing shoes on. Especially not shoes like—those. You’re going to scratch the surface. Not to mention that I’m pretty sure they didn’t test the desk for that kind of stress.”
He didn’t just say that.
He did . And I’m pretty sure I don’t imagine that his eyes are moving over my whole body, a thorough perusal, or that he scowls again once he’s taken me in.
Okay. Nope. That’s…nope.
“Did you just make a crack about my weight?”
“No!” He has enough self-awareness to go red at that, and to look completely abashed. “God, no. I would never.”
“Sounds an awful lot like you did.”
“I was simply noting that the desktop wasn’t made for jumping around on.”
“ Dancing, ” I repeat. I can’t decide if I want to laugh or cry.
“My point stands. You shouldn’t be doing that. It’s not safe. And the other hotel guests probably don’t love the clomping.”
Clomping? Fucker!
“And who are you, the hotel guest inspection team? They send you from room to room, making sure the guests aren’t breaking any weird unwritten rules, like, For God’s sake, man, whatever you do, no dancing on the desk! ”
“I would think that would be self-evident without an actual written rule,” he says darkly. He’s backing up now, still scowling, but the suitcase wheel catches, and the case falls over. Something small and metallic tumbles out of his hand and hits the floor.
Reflexively, I bend and pick it up. Cuff link. The one missing from his dangling shirt sleeve. It’s heavy. Expensive—onyx and probably platinum.
I drop the cuff link back into his palm.
His hand is big, the fingers long and elegant. He closes it around the plain onyx stud, then, with a practiced motion, shoots the cufflink home.
I imagine his internal monologue is something like, Whew! Safe!
“Your tie,” I mock. “You need to tighten that up, too.” I reach for the knot at his throat.
His eyes flash to mine, pre-storm dark, and I freeze as his pupils flare, darker, his gaze pinning me in place?—
There’s a knock at the door.
He jerks away and straightens to his full height.
“Put your shirt on.” His voice is rough and commanding.
My mouth is so dry I can barely crack out words. “Um, what?”
He strides across the room, grabs my tunic and pushes it into my hands, scowling. His whole face is a thundercloud, his jaw set, a muscle ticking at the corner. “Just because I’m a good guy doesn’t mean everyone who knocks at that door is.”
Whether he’s a good guy or not is debatable, but I take his point and pull the tunic over my head.
“There. You happy?”
If anything, his scowl deepens. “Not in the slightest.”
Then he grabs the handle of his suitcase, tugs it toward the door, and launches himself out past the startled room service guy.