Chapter Fourteen
I spent the entire weekend trying not to think about Harleigh Storm.
It did not go well.
In fact, if I’m being brutally honest with myself, it went spectacularly badly.
I tried work first. Paperwork. Budgets. Emails. Staff reports. The endless list of operational details that come with running a historic resort that never truly sleeps.
Normally, I thrive on it.
But this weekend, every time my mind drifted—and it drifted often—it went straight back to a cozy, candlelit restaurant table and a woman peeling off her blouse like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I scrub a hand over my face for what feels like the hundredth time.
Geezus.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the way the fabric fell from her shoulder. The way the champagne-colored lace of her bra peeked through. The curve of her throat. The slope of her collarbone. The quick flash of ink along her skin. Or the way she didn’t seem embarrassed at all.
If anything, she looked completely at ease.
Which somehow made it worse.
By Sunday afternoon, I’d replayed the moment so many times that it felt permanently etched into my brain.
I lean back in my office chair and stare at the ceiling.
What the hell is wrong with me?
She works for me.
That thought alone should be enough to shut down the entire spiral.
Except it doesn’t.
Because somewhere around Saturday morning, I made a mistake. I opened her employee file. For purely professional reasons, of course. At least, that’s what I told myself.
The truth is, I was looking for her phone number.
I stare at the digits scribbled on the sticky note sitting on my desk. I must have picked up my phone a dozen times. And thankfully, every single time, I stopped myself.
What exactly would I say?
Hello, Miss Storm. This is your employer. I’m calling to apologize.
I groan under my breath.
Apologize for what?
I’m not even sure.
For asking too many questions. For letting the conversation drift into personal territory. For noticing things I shouldn’t have noticed.
For imagining kissing my way across her skin to …
My eyes fall closed as another memory surfaces. Her leaning across the table. The soft dip between her breasts. The way the lace curved around the swell.
Fuck.
My fingers flex involuntarily against the desk. For one reckless second, I imagined reaching across the table and dragging a fingertip along the line of that lace. Tracing the edge of the tattoo and running up the column of her throat.
I shove my chair back abruptly and stand.
“Enough,” I mutter.
I scrub both hands down my face.
I do not need to be thinking about her like this, and I don’t need to be sitting in my office all morning, avoiding her like a teenager with a crush.
We are adults.
Professional adults.
Two colleagues who shared a meal.
That’s all.
I straighten my tie and grab my jacket from the back of my chair. The only way to deal with this is to handle it like an adult. Which means finding her and clearing the air.
I step out of my office and head down to the first floor to her office. When I reach the door, it’s open. But the lights are off.
I frown.
Maybe she’s in a meeting.
I turn and head back toward the main lobby, where Mabree stands behind the front desk, typing something into the computer.
She glances up as I approach. “Good afternoon, Mr. Garrison.”
“Mabree.”
I rest a hand on the polished wood of the counter.
“Have you seen Miss Storm this afternoon?” I ask casually.
She looks up at me. “I believe she’s at lunch.”
I glance at my watch—12:32 p.m.
“Did she leave the hotel?”
Mabree shakes her head slowly. “I don’t think so, Mr. Garrison.” She hesitates. “I mean, I didn’t see her leave or anything,” she says nervously.
Odd.
But Mabree can be slightly aloof.
Which means I won’t get much more information out of her.
“Thank you,” I say.
I turn toward the elevators just as the doors slide open.
Calliope is seated on her stool but stands when she sees me.
“Oh!” she says brightly. “Hi, Mr. Garrison.”
Calliope is the exact opposite of Mabree.
Cheerful.
Chatty.
And dangerously observant.
“Calliope,” I say.
She smiles. “Headed to lunch?”
“Actually,” I say, stepping into the elevator with her, “I was hoping you might help me with something.”
The doors slide shut.
“Have you seen Miss Storm today?”
Her smile widens immediately. “Yes, I have.”
Of course she has.
“Do you know where she went?” I hear the impatience creeping into my voice.
Calliope tilts her head slightly. “I dropped her off about thirty minutes ago, I believe it was.”
My brow furrows. “Where?”
“Sixth floor.”
The elevator hums as it begins to rise.
“Did she head toward the conference rooms?”
She smiles innocently. “No. I believe I saw her going to room 641.”
My jaw tightens slightly. “Why?”
Calliope shrugs. “No idea.”
My temper flickers to life. Guest rooms are for guests. Surely, she’s not cavorting with one?
“Is she visiting one of our guests?” I ask carefully, my hands curling into fists at the thought.
Calliope shakes her head. “Nope. The room’s empty.”
Empty? Then why—
I exhale slowly. “Take me to the sixth floor.”
She grins as she taps the gold button.
The elevator dings softly as it arrives. The doors slide open, and Calliope gestures down the corridor.
“Room 641 is right down there.”
“Thank you.”
She watches me, her eyes brimming with amused curiosity until the elevator doors shut.
I walk down the hallway, my mind spinning.
Manager offices have private restrooms. The employee lounge has showers. There is absolutely no reason for a staff member to be spending lunch in a guest suite.
I stop outside room 641.
My hand slips into my wallet and pulls out the master key fob.
I step inside.
The room is immaculate. Exactly the way housekeeping leaves it. The king bed is perfectly made. Crisp white linens. Smooth pillows. No signs of anyone sitting or lying on it.
The bathroom door is open. I flick on the light. The sink is dry. The counter spotless. The shower tiles bone dry. No towels out. No toiletries opened. No sign anyone’s used it.
I walk deeper into the suite.
No sign of her.
I turn toward the door, already wondering if Calliope got the room number wrong.
Then I catch movement through the sliding glass door.
I step outside onto the balcony and freeze.
Harleigh is stretched out on a lounge chair. Her blazer is tossed over the armrest beside her. Her pink camisole is tugged halfway up her torso, exposing the smooth plane of her stomach.
And the tattoo.
Black ink curves beneath the thin strap.
Her hair is down. Loose and golden around her shoulders.
She’s wearing oversize sunglasses.
A brown paper lunch sack sits on the small table beside her. A half-eaten sandwich and an apple rest next to it.
An open book lies in her lap.
But she’s not reading. She’s leaned back, face tilted toward the sun.
I just stand there. Watching her from the shadow.
The afternoon light glows against her skin. The breeze lifts a few silky strands of her hair.
I clear my throat. “Miss Storm.”
She startles slightly, and her head turns toward me.
Slowly, she slides the sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. One eye remains closed against the sunlight as she peers up at me.
“Mr. Garrison.” Her voice is cool.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
She lifts one shoulder. “It’s a warm afternoon.” She gestures lazily toward the sky. “I felt like getting a little sun.”
I glance around the balcony. “There are chairs by the pool. And several outdoor seating areas,” I remind her.
“Yes,” she says evenly. “But those areas are full of people.” Her sunglasses slide back into place. “I wanted some privacy.”
Then she tilts her head slightly. “Am I in trouble for being caught without my proper business attire, Mr. Garrison?”
The words are polite. But the tone is pure ice. The warmth from the other night is completely gone.
“No,” I say quickly. “You’re not in trouble.”
Her lips twitch faintly. “Good.”
I hesitate. “Though you should probably stick to more appropriate lunch locations in the future.”
She lifts her hand in a crisp little salute. “Yes, sir.”
I sigh.
This is not going the way I imagined.
“I actually came to apologize,” I say.
She lowers her sunglasses again and studies me. “For what?”
“For the other night.” I shove my hands into my pockets. “I shouldn’t have asked so many personal questions. I hope you didn’t find it intrusive.”
She gives me a tight smile. “Not at all, Mr. Garrison.”
Mr. Garrison. How many times is that now?
This is worse than I expected.
Before I can stop myself, I drop to one knee beside her chair. The movement surprises both of us.
The scent hits me instantly—coconut. Warm and soft. Like a tropical breeze.
My gaze drifts to the exposed tattoo, and for a reckless second, I want to reach out and trace the delicate script with my finger. Feel the warmth of her skin beneath it.
I swallow hard.
“Your hair is down,” I say before thinking.
Her face turns toward me. “Is that against the rules too?”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s just … the first time I’ve seen you wear it down.”
The sunlight catches the strands.
“It looks nice,” I add quietly.
Her expression shifts slightly. Just a flicker. Then it’s gone.
I clear my throat. This conversation is spiraling.
“I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole the other night,” I say. “I just get irritated when people bring up the folklore around this place. The ghost-in-a-ball-gown nonsense.”
Her mouth twitches. “Apology accepted.”
Silence settles between us.
The air feels thick. Too warm.
My eyes drift from her sunglasses to her mouth and back again as her tongue slides out briefly, wetting her bottom lip.
I look away immediately.
Pausing to compose myself.
Finally, she speaks. “Was there anything else you needed, Mr. Garrison?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“No, that was all.”
I stand quickly.
“Enjoy the sunshine.”
She lifts a hand lazily in acknowledgment as I turn and walk back through the suite without another word.
When I reach the hallway, my pulse is racing.
I head toward the elevators.
The tension in my chest slowly unwinds with each step.
By the time the elevator arrives, I’m smiling.
Because despite everything—despite the awkward conversation, despite her cool tone, and despite the professional distance we’re both clearly trying to maintain—I could still see the moment her composure slipped.
Just for a second. When I said I liked her hair down.
The doors slide open, and a grinning Calliope is staring at me.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Garrison?”
I step inside. “Yes.” I sure did.