Chapter 13
RHETT
The hotel was everything I had requested and more.
The sprawling beachfront resort screamed luxury from the marble-lined lobby to the infinity pools that seemed to blend seamlessly with the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
My suite occupied the entire top floor corner, with huge windows offering panoramic views of South Beach and amenities that most people would never be privileged enough to experience.
The living area alone was larger than most New York apartments and I was not talking about the shoeboxes people called an apartment.
The suite was huge, complete with a full bar, designer furniture, and a sound system that probably annoyed the hell out guests when the party people got in the room. The walls had to be soundproof.
The master bedroom opened onto a private terrace with its own hot tub, while the secondary bedroom that Conroy was going to be staying in offered equally impressive views of the coastline.
Conroy dropped his bag in the room with his good arm, his injured limb still secured in the sling that made him look like a wounded soldier. Despite the limitation, he seemed in remarkably good spirits as he explored the suite’s various luxuries.
“Damn, Rhett,” he called from the bathroom, “this place has a shower that could fit six people and a bathtub carved from a single block of marble. What exactly are we compensating for here?”
“Nothing,” I replied, unpacking my clothes and hanging my suits. “I just believe in staying somewhere comfortable when I’m working.”
“Comfortable?” He emerged from the bathroom, shaking his head in amazement. “This isn’t comfortable, this is obscene. In the best possible way.”
I shrugged. After years of budget hotels and questionable accommodations during my early career, I made a promise to myself that I would never settle for less than the best once I could afford it. Life was too short for uncomfortable beds and weak water pressure.
If I was traveling, I wanted to see the place I was visiting. I didn’t want to look at a brick wall or a parking lot. Rooms with views cost money. And I was happy to pay it. It wasn’t like it was coming out of the tour’s finances. It was all on me.
My phone buzzed with a message from Simone, confirming that she and Clem had settled into their room across the hall. As expected, she was already reviewing tomorrow’s schedule for our Miami venue.
“So,” Conroy said, settling onto the living room’s leather sofa with a beer from the suite’s fully stocked refrigerator. “What’s the plan for tonight?”
“Plan?” I looked up from my laptop, where I was reviewing vendor contracts. “The plan is to get a good night’s sleep before tomorrow’s service. We have a lot of work to do. Hundreds of plates will be going out and I refuse to serve shit. I don’t care if it’s free.”
Conroy made a dismissive sound. “Come on, man. We’re in Miami Beach. The nightlife here is legendary. We should hit the town, have some drinks, eat food we didn’t have to cook ourselves for once.”
“The night before a service? Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” His expression grew more animated, the way it always did when he was building up to one of his persuasive arguments. “When’s the last time you actually relaxed? Had fun? Remembered that there’s life outside the kitchen?”
I returned my attention to the laptop screen. “I’m perfectly relaxed.”
“Bullshit. You’re wound tighter than a Swiss watch, and you have been ever since…” He paused, and I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “Actually, ever since that night at Desman’s restaurant. What happened between you and Clem?”
“Nothing happened.” The lie came too quickly, and from Conroy’s knowing look, he wasn’t buying it.
“Right. Look, I get that mixing business with pleasure is complicated, but you’re going to drive yourself insane if you keep this up. Besides, this might be my only chance to convince Simone to see me as something other than just your right-hand man in the kitchen.”
That got my attention. I looked up to find him staring at his beer bottle with an expression that was equal parts hopeful and terrified.
“You’re serious about her.”
“Dead serious.” He met my eyes. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to ask her out for months, but she’s so professional. Focused. I can never tell if she’s interested or just being polite. You hog all her time.”
“She works for me. If you want to ask her out, do it. I’m not stopping you.”
“I need you as my wingman. Trying to figure out what Simone is thinking is like trying to read a stone statue, but you can. You know her. You can be my in.”
Simone was indeed difficult to read when it came to personal matters, maintaining the same level of composed professionalism whether she was discussing catering logistics or fielding questions about her weekend plans.
But I had caught her watching Conroy sometimes when she thought no one was looking, and there was definitely something there beyond mere colleague appreciation.
“One drink,” I said finally. “We find somewhere low key, have a nightcap, and head back at a reasonable hour.”
Conroy’s face lit up like I just granted him parole. “You won’t regret this, I promise.”
Two hours later, I was absolutely regretting it.
The low-key spot Conroy had suggested turned out to be one of South Beach’s premiere nightclub destinations, complete with velvet ropes, intimidating bouncers, and a line of hopeful patrons that stretched around the block.
I was pretty sure I saw more vag and nipples in that line than I had at a strip club I went to a couple of years ago.
How were they not getting ticketed for indecent exposure?
The outfits they wore were basically strings and scraps of fabric.
Damn, Miami was wild.
Somehow, probably through a combination of strategic name-dropping and generous tipping, we had managed to bypass the wait and secure a VIP table with perfect views of both the dance floor and the ocean beyond.
The music was loud enough to rattle my ribcage.
And the lighting was an assault of strobes and neon.
I was pretty sure it was intentional. It made it impossible to really see a person.
The crowd was exactly what you would expect from a Miami hotspot on a Thursday night.
Lots of beautiful people wearing very little clothing and spending obscene amounts of money on overpriced drinks.
In other words, my personal version of hell.
But none of that mattered because Clementine had just returned from the bar, and she looked dangerously, devastatingly beautiful.
The dress she’d chosen was a simple black number that hugged every curve of her body like it had been painted on.
The neckline was modest enough to be tasteful but low enough to hint at the curves beneath, while the hemline ended just above her knees, showcasing legs that seemed to go on for miles.
But what really caught my attention was the elegant line of her neck and the delicate collarbones that disappeared beneath the dress’s fabric.
She was easily the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and judging by the way every man in her vicinity kept glancing in her direction, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.
The thought should have been flattering. She was technically part of my team, and her attracting positive attention reflected well on all of us. Instead, I felt something dark and possessive unfurling in my chest every time another man looked at her like she was something they wanted to taste.
I did not do jealous. Jealousy was for insecure teenagers and men who couldn’t trust their partners. I was neither of those things, so why was I fighting the urge to position myself between Clem and every other male in the club?
She spent the last hour charming everyone who had approached our table, even the bartender who’d personally delivered our drinks with an extra-bright smile reserved just for her. She had a natural warmth that drew people in. Everyone gravitated toward her.
It was maddening.
“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Conroy said, following my gaze to where Clem was laughing at something one of her new admirers had said.
I caught myself thinking of her as my protégée and mentally shook my head. She wasn’t my anything. She was just a young woman who happened to be observing our operations for educational purposes. Someone who might learn something useful if she paid attention and kept her mouth shut.
Right?
“She’s fine,” I said before taking a larger sip of my whiskey than was probably wise.
Conroy snorted. “Fine? Rhett, you haven’t taken your eyes off her all night. If looks could kill, half the men in this place would be dead on the floor.”
Before I could formulate a response to that uncomfortable observation, Simone leaned across the table, raising her voice to be heard over the music.
“This is actually fun!” she shouted, her usual composure giving way to something looser and more relaxed. The cocktails were clearly having their intended effect. “When is the last time we did something like this?”
“Never,” I replied honestly. Team building had always been limited to post-service dinners and the occasional holiday party.
I even took them to a Broadway show once.
I had never seen the point in socializing outside of work.
It only complicated professional relationships and created opportunities for poor judgment.
Like the poor judgment I was contemplating right now, watching Clem move to the music while she talked to her new friends.
Guy friends.
The little green monster was rearing its ugly head and every swallow of whiskey was making him louder.
Conroy had been making increasingly desperate attempts to impress Simone all evening. She seemed amused by his efforts more than anything else, rolling her eyes at his lame attempts most of the time. The failed attempts were almost painful to watch. I almost felt bad for the guy.
Clem appeared at our table, slightly breathless from her social rounds and glowing with the kind of energy that came from being surrounded by admiration.
“You guys are being way too serious for a place like this,” she said a little too loudly. “We’re in Miami Beach! The music is incredible, the atmosphere is amazing, and you’re all sitting here like you’re at a business meeting.”
“Some of us prefer business meetings,” I muttered, earning a laugh from Simone and an exasperated look from Conroy.
Clem’s attention focused on me with laser-like intensity. “When is the last time you danced?”
“I don’t dance.”
“Everyone dances. You just haven’t found the right partner yet.” She extended her hand toward me, her expression shifting from playful to challenging. “Come on, Rhett. One song. What’s the worst that could happen?”
I could think of several answers to that question, none of which I was prepared to voice in present company. “I’m fine here, thanks.”
“Scared?” The word was delivered with just enough teasing challenge to make my jaw clench.
“Of making a fool of myself in front of a crowd of strangers? Absolutely.”
“Good thing I’m not a stranger then.” She moved closer, her hand still extended. “Trust me. One song, and if you hate it, you can come back to your whiskey and your brooding.”
I looked at her hand, then at her face, then at Conroy and Simone, who were watching this exchange with obvious interest. Every rational part of my brain was screaming at me to politely decline.
I needed to maintain professional boundaries.
It would be wise to avoid the kind of physical contact that would only make my inconvenient attraction to her more difficult to manage.
But there was something in her expression that made it impossible to say no.
Against my better judgment, I took her hand.
The dance floor was a writhing mass of bodies moving to a bass line that seemed designed to vibrate through your bones and into your soul. Clem led me through the crowd with confident ease, finding a spot where we had enough room to move without being completely crushed by the surrounding dancers.
“See?” she said, raising her voice over the music as she began to sway to the rhythm. “Not so terrifying.”
I started to respond, but then she moved closer.
Suddenly I forgot what I had been planning to say.
Her body was warm and soft against mine.
The scent of her vanilla perfume or shampoo reached around and pretty much grabbed my dick.
When she looked up at me, her eyes reflecting the strobing lights, I felt something fundamental shift in my chest.
I was in dangerous territory. It was the kind of situation that led to poor decisions and morning-after regrets. I should step back, make some excuse, return to the safety of our table and the familiar distance that professional relationships required.
Instead, I found myself moving with her, my hands settling on her waist like they had been there a hundred times before.
The music shifted to something slower but no less intense. She pressed closer, her palms flat against my chest as we found a rhythm that had nothing to do with the song and everything to do with the electricity crackling between us.
There were bodies all around us, but hers was the only one I could see and feel.
“You’re not as terrible at this as you claimed,” she said, her lips close enough to my ear that I could feel her breath against my skin.
“I’m full of surprises,” I managed, though my voice came out rougher than I intended.
She pulled back slightly to look at me. The look in her eyes made my pulse stutter. Heat. Passion. Desire.
“Yes, you are,” she murmured.
The song changed again, but we didn’t adjust our movements. If anything, we moved closer, her body fitting against mine like we’d been designed to complement each other. I was acutely aware of every point of contact.
It was madness. Professional suicide wrapped in a black dress and the kind of smile that could make a man forget his own name. I couldn’t bring myself to care about the consequences, though.