Bound and Bitter (Moncrief Hotel #1)

Chapter 1

Grace

“Well, that was humiliating,” I mumble into my cell while weaving through the throng of Philadelphia’s finest. My sights are set on the hotel bar that runs the length of the glitzy reception room.

“Don’t tell me your date’s over already,” says Brooke. “If I’d known you were going to crash and burn so soon, Grace, I wouldn’t have been so quick to give you my invitation.”

I slide onto the only available stool at the very end of the bar and drop my green satin purse onto the black quartz countertop. There’s a guy on my left wearing a dark blue tuxedo with his arms wrapped around a beautiful redhead. They look disgustingly loved-up.

“You hate all this schmoozing,” I remind my boss, who I’m fortunate enough to also call my friend.

Except I don’t feel particularly fortunate right now.

The fates do seem to take great pleasure in kicking me when I’m down.

“I’m not saying you couldn’t have picked up a fresh client or two, but you’re not missing much. ”

“Tell me it’s bad,” she says hopefully.

“Diabolical,” I confirm as I glance down the bar in search of a server. I lean forward, arm outstretched in the hope of catching the eye of the nearest bartender who’s pouring a cocktail, but all I manage to do is elbow the person who’s just stepped up to the bar on my right.

“Sorry,” I say, turning to find myself face-to-bulging-bicep with an arm that strains the sleeve of a black jacket.

I tip back my head for a better view of the guy resting with his back against the corner of the bar.

He has his arms folded over a black button-down that matches his tuxedo and he’s staring out across the gathering.

His neck is thick, his hair tightly cropped and there are angry scars on the side of his head, but it’s the earpiece my gaze snags on.

Security. And he’s not alone. Another guy in a black suit stands on the other side of him, wearing a matching earpiece and scowl.

My new neighbor’s jaw tics, but he makes no show of having heard my apology. I’m not surprised. He looks to be built of granite and I doubt he felt my jab.

“Sorry,” I say again, only this time to Brooke. I twist in my seat to put my back to the two security guards. “Where were we?”

“You were telling me how awful it is to be at the opening of the swankiest new hotel in Philadelphia. I’m dying to hear how the interior design pales in comparison to what we would have delivered if we’d won the pitch.

But you can start by telling me why the date I set you up with didn’t meet your exacting standards. ”

“Standards?” I repeat as I pull at the short strands of chestnut brown hair that frame my face.

My new pixie cut was meant to reframe me too, but it’s only served to make me feel even more diminished.

“I didn’t know I had any standards left.

I was more than willing to give one of your favorite clients the best night of his life, but I’m guessing Edwardo didn’t get the memo.

” I heave a sigh. My brief introduction had been a mortifying exchange. “He came here with a date, Brooke.”

“Ah, damn. I’m sorry, Grace.”

“No, matter,” I say, holding onto what’s left of my self-respect by a thread. “I’ll just cast my net a little further. There has to be someone here looking for more than free canapés.”

I stretch across the bar again as the bartender glances in my direction. He takes a couple of steps towards me, but his eyes shift to my right. He takes one more faltering step then diverts to another customer.

“I can only hope picking up a guy is going to be easier than getting a damn drink in this place,” I mutter. “I’d happily put out for the price of an espresso martini right now.”

“If you’re that miserable, you could go home,” Brooke suggests. “Aren’t you worried what Cameron might be up to back at the house?”

“I was trying to put it out of my mind,” I grit out, my body tensing at the mere mention of my soon-to-be-but-not-soon-enough-ex-husband.

I’d kicked him out four months ago, but the bastard is returning this evening to what he insists is still our shared marital home.

It seems to have passed him by that my grandma left the house to me, not my cheating husband.

“But as my lawyer is keen to point out, I don’t have the power or authority to stop him unless I want to fight it out in court. My legal bill is already astronomical.”

“I hate that man for what he’s doing to you,” Brooke says with a sigh of resignation I know only too well. “Fine, let’s change the subject. How ugly is the new Moncrief hotel?”

“Oh, it’s astonishingly ugly,” I confirm, if only to soothe my boss’s ego after losing out on what would have been a very lucrative contract. “For a global hotel chain that makes a big deal of the family’s Scottish roots, this place is the biggest fuck you to their heritage.”

It’s also stunningly opulent. Noah DeVere might have put modernity at the forefront of his concept, but the subtle touches that hint at the family’s past are inspired.

The color scheme evokes images of Scottish mountains covered in heather and moss, and the lines etched in almost every reflective surface look random close up but stepping back, you can see the tartan pattern. Genius.

But my boss doesn’t need to know that. She and I had put a lot of time and effort into our pitch. “The Exemplar is utterly soulless” I add.

Brooke sniffs. “Their loss. But you should go chat to Noah. We’ve talked about this, Grace. Your career deserves to take off and he’s someone worth getting to know.”

“Not tonight,” I reply, not wanting to think about moving on from my mentor. “I have other fish to reel in first.”

My foot taps thin air in growing frustration as I scan the room.

Not only did we lose the contract, but I can’t even win a date out of opening night.

There are plenty of men in suits milling around, but the ones who don’t have beautiful women hanging on their arms, look single for a reason.

Or married. That’s a line I would never cross, and while it might seem hypocritical given my current marital status, the only reason I’m still technically married is because Cameron won’t sign the divorce papers.

Desperate for a drink, I resort to waving to get the bartender’s attention. He sees me, but my eyes widen in dismay as he turns away for the second time. He’s deliberately ignoring me.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The bartender had glanced over my shoulder again before he turned.

I swivel in my seat to face the security guard. He’s still leaning with his back against the bar, only now his glacial blue eyes are on me. I match his hard stare with one of my own. I’m just about done with men tonight.

“Can we talk later?” I say to Brooke.

Without breaking eye contact with my latest nemesis, I set down my phone next to my purse. “Are you stopping me from being served?”

“I think you might have better luck elsewhere, Ma’am,” he says, his voice vibrating deep enough to be felt through my puffed-out chest.

“Better luck getting a drink? Than here?” I repeat, tipping my head towards the fully stocked bar.

“We’re not talking about drinks,” he says, his features impassive. “Are we?”

“Aren’t we?” I challenge and it’s a genuine question. What else could he mean? This man knows nothing about me except that I can’t get a fucking drink.

Unless he was listening to my conversation with Brooke. Has he figured out I work for a competing interior designer? Did he take offense to my scathing review of the hotel décor? But even if that was his problem, we were sent an official invitation.

Why else could this jerk think I didn’t belong here? I mentioned clients. Oh, and selling myself for the price of a cocktail. My jaw would drop, but I’m too tense with anger.

“You think I’m a…” I can’t say the word and instead reach for my purse. “I have an invitation. You can’t throw me out.”

“Invitations can be forged. Or stolen.”

“One of the other security guards checked my name at the door.”

“And did you give him your name?” he asks. He presses his finger to his earpiece, making it clear he’s being fed information. “Could I see some ID proving that you are…” He nods at whoever’s talking to him. “Brooke Winstanley.”

Great. Some tech busy-body is busily reviewing footage of my arrival. “Brooke is my boss and she was personally invited by your boss. I’m here as her representative.”

He tilts his head to one side as he checks me over. “To pick up men?”

I clench my jaw. “I’m an interior designer.”

When he quirks an eyebrow, I’m surprised his granite features don’t crack with the effort. “And yet you called this place astonishingly ugly and soulless.”

“I guess that’s why you fit in so well.”

The guard’s cheek tics, or was that a flinch? I shouldn’t care that my comment hit harder than it should. He’s about to throw me out anyway.

“I didn’t mean…” I begin, resisting the urge to glance at the scars on his head.

“I’m in no way suggesting you’re ugly.” I let my gaze travel slowly up and down his body.

It’s a bad move because he has the most amazing body.

Tall. Muscular. Powerful. Heat scorches my cheeks.

“You’re…” My voice trails off. I need a damn drink.

“I’m what?” he asks, forcing me to continue.

His fellow security guard leans forward to get a better view of my humiliation. He fights a smirk.

“Oh, please,” I snap, blocking out our audience. “You know you’re good-looking.” I pause, searching for some hint that he’s softening. Is he seriously going to make me leave? “And excuse me, but do I look like a hooker?”

It’s his turn to let his eyes roam over my body. The forest green satin of my full-length halter neck dress clings to my body. With my legs crossed, the high split on one side shows off my smooth legs, making them look longer and more slender thanks to my heels. It’s revealing, yes, but classic.

“I was thinking more of a high-class escort,” he replies.