Chapter 8 Kellin
Kellin
I sip black coffee as I wait for Maeve at the front desk. Yesterday, she gave me a must-see, short-and-sweet tour. Today, we inspect the rest of the Cypress.
That little added bonus at the end of the night was my favorite part. Blood shoots straight to my groin at the memory of her flushed face pressed up against the door of my suite. The whisper of her breath against my lips. Her sweet jasmine perfume permeating the air between us.
Focus, Kellin.
I shake my head to clear the image away.
The hotel. Right.
I’ve studied the public blueprints, but I still lack any real insight into the property. I need to find the exact location of her office and figure out the safest way to sneak in.
Maybe more importantly, I want plenty of time to win her over after what happened last night. Or rather, what almost-but-didn’t-happen.
To soften the sting of rejection, I chatted up the front desk worker, Lola-Grace, for information on how to weasel my way into Maeve’s good graces. She informed me that Maeve loves caramel macchiatos, which is why I have one waiting for her. Easy brownie points.
The sturdy coffee cup toasts my hand as I scan the lobby. Declan Gallagher really didn’t spare any expense with this place.
But now I know Maeve was the one who designed everything.
All the refined, high-quality details, down to the expensive marble floor.
The engraved molding on the ceiling. The skylights and elegant pillars.
The eclectic furniture—funky yet understated—and the original art pieces scattered everywhere and hanging from the walls.
Even the potted plants add some color and give the space an exotic, oasis-type vibe.
This lobby—the entire hotel—is gorgeous.
What a shame if I have to burn it all down.
But I’ll do whatever’s necessary.
Because failure isn’t an option.
I need to pick up the pace on this operation.
After one last sip, I set my coffee on the counter and “accidentally” spill it across the desk. The hot liquid pools toward the computers.
“Oh, shit. Sorry about that.” I lock eyes with Lola-Grace, who’s already started mopping the mess up with the small napkin from the muffin she just finished eating.
Did I buy her that muffin as a bribe? Maybe.
Lola-Grace flashes me a smile, showing off the dimples in her round cheeks. “Not to worry, Mr. Jameson. Happens all the time. I’ll take care of it.”
She dries up what she can before hurrying through the staff door behind the counter for napkin reinforcements, her dark, stylish pixie cut disappearing through the wood.
I glance around to ensure no one’s watching. There are cameras throughout the lobby, but with Rory’s help, I’ve tapped into them and memorized their angles. With a sleight of hand, I pop a sleek, undetectable USB drive into the back of the all-in-one desktop.
Just in time, too, because here comes Maeve.
She struts to the counter, heels clacking on the marble, and holds up a finger when I open my mouth to greet her. She’s got her phone pressed against her ear, a displeased crease in her forehead. Hotels never sleep, and problems clearly arrive at all hours of the day.
Maeve leans back against the check-in desk, tapping her nails on the counter as she listens to the other side of the conversation. Since I’m waiting anyway, I allow myself a moment to drink her in.
Her wavy chestnut hair is gathered into a long ponytail at the back of her head, giving her a more severe appearance.
More fuckable too. Beneath her black blazer, a violent red top—tight, but not revealing—adds a pop of eye-catching color.
The shade matches the tips of her otherwise black stilettos.
Between those shoes and the ponytail, I can barely look at her without getting hard.
Not when I’m torn between bending her over in those heels, sliding that pencil skirt up, and screwing her from behind or wrapping that ponytail around my hand and shoving her to her knees.
She’s understated, classy, managerial…and sexier than anything on a porn channel. Utterly impossible to ignore.
I have no idea how I summoned the willpower to decline her advances last night. She was aching for me, desperation blazing in her gaze, and I somehow managed to walk away without kissing her like she so clearly wanted.
Hell, like I wanted.
Seduction is part of the plan—and a hell of a perk—but I never expected to slip under her skin quite this fast. Or her bold attempt to come on to me.
She’s a wealth of surprises. Full of unexpected twists. I hope today is no exception.
After last night, I’m not sure what kind of greeting to expect from her once she finishes this call. Maybe she’ll be embarrassed because I refused her. The thought of her holding a grudge amuses me.
She slips her cell into her pocket, heaving a sigh that belongs at the end of a long day rather than the start of one.
I offer the caramel macchiato. “Good morning, Maeve.”
She blinks at the drink before warmth infuses her expression, tinting her cheeks pink. “Good morning. Thank you for this.”
That smile lights up the whole room.
Fuck, she’s gorgeous.
Yet again, I wonder if, with just the right touch, that pink would travel down her neck. Her chest. Farther, even.
Clearing my throat, I shove the thoughts aside.
I wave toward the lobby. “I’m here for—”
“The full tour. I remember. I’m ready when you are.” She sips from her coffee cup and sighs in delight.
When my dick jumps to life over her expression of sheer pleasure, I force myself to think about kissing old toothless Larry at the corner bodega back home. “Lead the way.”
The air between us is alive. A little thick, maybe, with awkwardness left over from the way we parted last night. But the tug of attraction remains, buzzing pleasantly at the base of my skull.
Unfortunately, I can’t quite get a read on her.
What is she thinking?
Her quiet, contemplative expression gives nothing away, which annoys and tantalizes me in equal measure.
We walk the first floor, starting with the bars and then heading down a long, art-filled hallway.
At the elevators, we pass a short, burly man with a ruddy face and a mottled, cauliflower ear.
His suit and the earpiece in the other ear suggest he’s hotel security. But as soon as she spots him, Maeve raises her invisible shields. Her mouth droops into a frown, and she clenches her cup.
She nods in greeting as we pass. In return, the brute smiles at her.
Leers, really. Entirely inappropriate behavior for a subordinate interacting with their superior.
Maeve’s shoulders remain tight as her heels tap a staccato beat on the marble. She glances back, and her jaw tenses.
What sort of security guard looks at their boss like that? Are they ex-lovers? Surely not.
A sharp, hot jab of jealousy sears my chest, and lava scorches through my limbs.
Is that why Maeve came on to me so quickly? Because of this fucker?
My mind races, struggling to understand the connection between Maeve and Mutilated Ear. If that man really is her ex…him being close by will affect how Maeve connects with me, for better or worse.
Or maybe he’s not an ex, but he wants to be. That tracks. The guy’s not even in the basement-level parking garage of her league.
If that’s the case, I wonder if he’s any danger to her. I know Maeve is too smart to retain an employee with any chance of assaulting someone, but maybe there’s a reason she hasn’t fired him.
Note to self: Find out who the fuck that guy is and what he’s smiling about.
And figure out why I care.
Even after we round a corner and he’s long gone, Maeve remains stiff and cold.
I shrug off the urge to comfort her, instead latching onto the opening and running with it. “I’ve noticed more security than I expected for a hotel of this size.”
We’ve reached the first of the hotel’s three ballrooms. The parquet flooring whirls around in rectangular spirals, complementing the warm white walls and crystal chandeliers that light the space.
Across from the double doors, wall-to-ceiling windows showcase the Santa Monica skyline, and round tables with handsome leather seating line the other walls, awaiting their next engagement.
Maeve waves me inside, sipping her coffee as she considers my comment. Our shoes click on the wood, mine soft, hers pointedly loud.
Finally, she faces me with a customer-service smile. “Our city is home to many of the world’s rich and famous. Celebrity and high-profile clients often come to stay at the Cypress. It’s of the utmost importance that we take precautions and do everything in our power to protect their privacy.”
And we’re back to strict professionalism.
All hints of the flushed and needy woman against my door last night have disappeared, locked away behind the manager mask.
Possibly never to be seen again, unless I play my cards right.
Disappointment washes through me like the wake of a distant boat. I don’t want these walls between us. Not after coming so close last night to breaking them down. If we’re back to square one, I can’t afford to waste any time.
“Oh, you did mention that.” I glance up at the ceiling, clucking my tongue. “There’s a big celebrity staying here now, isn’t that right? In the penthouse?”
Maeve’s shoulders tighten even more. “That’s correct. Anyway, this is the Guinevere Ballroom. It can comfortably hold up to seven hundred…”
She spins away, her heels clicking as she gushes about the event space.
I trail behind her, focusing on the back of her neck.
I’m not sure what Maeve knows about Declan’s business dealings. And I suspect she may not have any information on the accountant at all.
But whenever I mention her father, even indirectly, she closes herself off. She hides things, diverts attention, shifts the conversation.
Practiced, but obvious to a con man like me.