Chapter 5
FIVE
TEDDY
“Please tell me that’s not what I think it is,” I mutter, staring at the suspicious substance splattered across the bathroom wall of room 325.
Miguel peers over my shoulder, his expression a mix of resignation and amusement. “If you think it’s blue margarita mix, then I have good news for you.”
“Thank god,” I breathe, shoulders sagging with relief as Miguel reaches for the industrial-strength cleaner.
Five days into my experiment and deep into spring break madness, and I’ve seen things that can never be unseen. Rooms transformed into makeshift nightclubs complete with disco balls dangling from light fixtures. Bathtubs filled with ice and empty beer bottles. One creative group even constructed a slip-and-slide in the hallway using shower curtains and shampoo.
It’s odd to see it from the other side knowing I’d been party to such shenanigans myself just a year ago, right before Preston cut off my black cards. Back then, I never once considered what the housekeeping staff would have done.
Back then, I simply didn’t care.
And maybe that’s what this is—redemption.
But through it all, I’ve kept going. There’s something grounding about the simple, physical labor—the immediate results of turning chaos into order, the routine of it all.
And then there’s Javi.
He’s been a constant presence on our floor, his security rounds seemingly timed to coincide with our cleaning schedule. Each day, he finds some reason to check in, to lend a hand with a particularly heavy item, to warn us about rowdy guests.
I’d noticed Javi even before this assignment— how could I not?
As Preston’s bodyguard, he’d been a striking figure in the background of family gatherings and business meetings. All broad shoulders and quiet intensity, a perfect contrast to my cousin’s more animated presence. But our interactions had been limited to brief nods and occasional professional exchanges when I’d visit Preston’s office.
This is different.
Now, I’m seeing him daily, watching the way his uniform stretches across his chest when he reaches to help with something on a high shelf, noticing how his eyes crinkle at the corners on those rare occasions when I coax a smile from him. The professional distance between Preston’s bodyguard and frivolous socialite cousin has collapsed into something far more complicated.
Miguel has taken to making himself scarce whenever Javi appears, shooting me knowing glances that I pretend not to see. I’m grateful that Miguel seems to think Javi has a personal interest in “Theresa Holden” rather than suspecting he’s really my security detail—though the heat that rushes to my cheeks whenever Javi enters the room isn’t exactly an act.
After we finish sanitizing the blue bathroom, Miguel and I move on to the next room, where a “Do Not Disturb” sign hangs on the door despite checkout time having passed two hours ago.
“Knock or call the front desk?” I ask, looking to Miguel’s experience.
“Protocol says knock first, then call if no response,” he answers, rapping firmly on the door. “Housekeeping!”
No answer.
Miguel knocks again, louder this time. Still nothing.
“I’ll call down,” he says, reaching for his work phone.
As he speaks with the front desk, I notice something seeping from beneath the door—a thin trickle of water snaking across the hallway carpet.
“Miguel,” I interrupt, pointing to the growing puddle.
His eyes widen. “Water leak. We need to get in there now.” He ends his call and swipes his master keycard, pushing the door open.
We’re immediately hit with the sound of rushing water and the sight of a bathroom doorway spilling a small river into the main room. The carpet squishes beneath our feet as we hurry toward the source.
“Call maintenance,” Miguel directs me, already wading into the flooded bathroom.
I grab the room phone and dial the emergency maintenance extension, reporting the situation as Miguel struggles with the shower faucet.
“It’s stuck!” he calls over the rush of water. “The handle’s broken off!”
Within minutes, the room fills with people—maintenance workers rushing in with tools and wet vacs, the floor manager appearing with clipboard in hand, and, inevitably, Javi materializing in the doorway, his expression sharpening when he spots me standing ankle-deep in water.
My heart does that ridiculous little flip it’s been doing whenever he appears. It’s embarrassing how my body responds to him—the quickening pulse, the flutter in my stomach, the sudden hyperawareness of every inch of myself. I’ve felt attracted to men before, but never like this—never with this constant, low-level hum of awareness that intensifies whenever he’s near.
“What happened?” he asks, moving to my side with surprising speed. He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne—something clean and subtle that makes me want to lean in closer.
“Broken shower handle,” I explain, gesturing to where Miguel and the maintenance chief are finally managing to shut off the water at the source. “No one answered when we knocked.”
Javi’s eyes scan the room, taking in the soaked carpet, the waterlogged furniture. The focus in his gaze, the immediate assessment and problem-solving, makes me wonder what it would be like to have that intensity directed at me in a very different context. The thought sends an entirely inappropriate heat through me despite standing in cold water.
“Where are the occupants?” he asks, his voice all business while my mind is decidedly not.
As if on cue, a group of sunburned young men appear behind him, their expressions transforming from confusion to dismay as they take in the scene.
“Dude, what the hell?” exclaims a tall blond wearing board shorts and a tank top with a crude slogan. “That’s our stuff!”
The floor manager steps forward, his professional smile strained. “Sir, are you the registered guest for this room?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Tyler Rodman.” The blond pushes past Javi, his voice rising as he surveys the damage. “What did you people do to our room?”
Miguel straightens up from the bathroom floor, water dripping from his uniform. “The shower handle broke off, sir. The room was flooding when we came in.”
Tyler’s face reddens. “So you just barged in without permission? We had the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign up!”
“Sir,” the manager interjects smoothly, “hotel policy allows staff to enter in case of emergencies, such as water leaks. We’ll be happy to relocate you to another room while we address the damage.”
“This is bullshit,” Tyler seethes, turning his glare on me. “Our stuff is ruined, and it’s your fault for not respecting the sign!”
I feel Javi tense beside me, a subtle shift in his posture that speaks volumes about his readiness to intervene. The protective gesture makes something warm unfurl in my chest. But before he can speak, I step forward.
“Actually, sir,” I say, keeping my voice calm and professional, “checkout time was two hours ago. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign doesn’t override that policy. If you needed a late checkout, the front desk would have been happy to accommodate you if possible.”
Tyler’s eyes narrow. “Who the hell are you? The maid police?”
The casual contempt in his voice hits me like a slap. A week ago, I might have been at the same beach club as this guy, moving in the same social circles. Would I have given a second thought to the housekeeping staff then? Would I have dismissed their concerns as easily as he’s dismissing me now?
“I’m just doing my job, sir,” I reply, my voice steady despite the anger bubbling in my chest. “And right now, that job includes helping fix this situation. If you’d like to speak to management about compensation for any damaged items, I’m sure they can assist you.”
Tyler takes a step toward me, his posture aggressive. “Listen, sweetheart?—”
“That’s enough.” Javi’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, low and dangerous. He moves subtly, positioning himself between me and Tyler. The protective gesture shouldn’t send a thrill through me, but it does—the way his shoulders broaden as he stands at his full height, the controlled power in his stance.
“Mr. Rodman, I suggest you take the offer to relocate while we assess the damage. Unless you’d prefer to discuss the broken fixture with the hotel’s legal team?”
Something in Javi’s tone—or perhaps his imposing presence—gives Tyler pause. He glances around at the busy room, the maintenance crew already pulling up sections of soaked carpet, and seems to deflate.
“Whatever,” he mutters, turning to his friends. “Let’s get our stuff and get out of here.”
As they gather their belongings, complaining loudly, Javi turns to me. “You okay?”
I nod, though my hands are trembling. “Fine. It’s not the first entitled jerk I’ve dealt with this week.” I pause, then add wryly, “Though usually, I’m on the other side of the interaction.”
A flicker of surprise crosses Javi’s face, followed by something that might be respect. “You handled that well.”
“I’ve had a good teacher,” I say, glancing toward Miguel, who’s conferring with maintenance about the damage.
Javi follows my gaze. “Miguel’s one of the best. Been with the Hollister hotels longer than most of the management team.”
“He doesn’t recognize me, does he?” I ask quietly, suddenly anxious. “My disguise?—”
“Is working perfectly,” Javi assures me, his words providing me unexpected relief.
Part of me had worried that the staff was just humoring me, playing along with my charade while laughing behind my back.
“Good,” I say. “I want to do this right. No special treatment, no shortcuts.”
The water continues to drain around our feet, maintenance staff working efficiently to minimize the damage. I should be helping, but for a moment, I’m caught in Javi’s gaze. This close, I can see flecks of amber in his dark eyes, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. I find myself wondering how that stubble would feel against my skin, how his strong hands would feel on parts of me that have nothing to do with helping carry heavy linens.
“Why?” he asks suddenly, his voice low. “Why is this so important to you?”
The question catches me off guard—not just because he’s asking, but because he seems genuinely interested in the answer. Not mocking or skeptical, the way Preston and Brogan had been.
“Because...” I start, then hesitate, searching for words that won’t sound trite or rehearsed. “Because I’m tired of being the family disappointment. The poor Hollister who’s only good for social media posts and PR nightmares.”
Javi’s expression softens almost imperceptibly. But before he can respond, the floor manager calls him over to discuss security protocols. He gives me one last searching look before crossing the room.
I watch him go, unable to stop my eyes from following the broad line of his shoulders, the confident stride that speaks of someone comfortable in his own skin.
It’s been a while since I’ve been with a man—about a year—and somehow Javi ticks all my boxes. The way he watches me, not with the typical male gaze I’ve grown accustomed to, but with something deeper—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. The way he appeared within seconds of trouble brewing, as if he has some sixth sense for when I might need him. The way his entire demeanor shifts when someone threatens even the slightest disrespect toward me.
Days of watching him move through the hotel has taught me things about Javier Conrad that I never noticed before. How he always positions himself with his back to a wall, eyes constantly scanning. How he remembers every staff member’s name, from the general manager to the newest dishwasher. How his hand instinctively moves to where I assume his weapon is concealed whenever an unexpected noise occurs.
It’s not just physical attraction, though God knows that’s there in spades. It’s the quiet competence, the absolute reliability. When Javi says he’ll do something, it happens. When he promises to check on a suspicious guest on our floor, he’s there within minutes. When he sees my cart is getting too heavy, he appears as if by magic to help with the load.
And just now, with Tyler—the way he stepped between us without hesitation, his body becoming a shield with such natural instinct that I doubt he even realized he’d done it. Not because he thinks I’m weak or incapable, but because protection is woven into the very fiber of who he is.
I’ve dated successful men before—men with money, power, social connections. But I’ve never been with someone like Javi, someone whose strength isn’t for show or status but simply exists as an intrinsic part of him.
The realization is terrifying and thrilling all at once. Because I don’t just want Javi in the physical sense that’s been simmering between us. I want the entirety of him—the quiet strength, the unwavering reliability, the intense focus. I want to be the puzzle he’s determined to solve, the person he instinctively moves to protect, the reason those serious eyes occasionally crinkle with a rare smile.
And that’s infinitely more dangerous than any mere physical attraction could ever be.
“Theresa! Can you bring more towels?” Miguel calls, breaking me from my reverie.
I shake myself back to reality, pushing thoughts of Javi to the back of my mind. “Coming!” I call back, turning away from the sight of him conferring with the manager.
I have two more weeks of this assignment. Two more weeks–plus a day or two–to prove to Preston and Brogan—and to myself—that I can be more than the family disappointment.
Developing feelings for the security detail was definitely not part of the plan.
* * *
By the end of my shift, my uniform is still damp from the flooding incident, my feet squelch uncomfortably in my shoes, and every muscle in my body protests the day’s exertions. Yet somehow, I feel oddly satisfied. We handled a crisis, prevented major damage to the hotel, and stood up to an entitled guest.
Not a bad day’s work for a spoiled socialite playing housekeeper.
I make my way to the employee locker room, longing for dry clothes and a hot shower. The room is empty when I arrive, most of the day shift having already departed. As I change out of my sodden uniform, my mind keeps returning to Javi’s question—Why is this so important to me?
The simple answer is that I want to prove myself capable, to show Preston and Brogan that I’m serious about joining the family business. But there’s more to it than that—a deeper need to prove something to myself, to break free from the pattern of taking the easy way out that I learned from my mother.
As I finish changing, the door to the locker room swings open, and Carmen, the head housekeeper, enters.
“Theresa,” she acknowledges with a nod. “Heard about the flooding in 325. Good call catching that.”
“Miguel spotted it first,” I say, not wanting to take credit. “He knew exactly what to do.”
Carmen nods, opening her locker. “Miguel’s one of our best. Been with us almost fifteen years.” She glances at me, her expression assessing. “He speaks highly of you, you know. Says you work harder than most new hires, especially during spring break.”
I feel a flush of pride at the unexpected praise. “I’m just trying to do my job well.”
“Hmm.” Carmen studies me for a moment longer. “Well, whatever your story is, you’re a good worker. That counts for something around here.”
My story. For a heart-stopping moment, I wonder if she’s figured out who I really am. But her next words reassure me.
“We get all types at The Sandpiper. People passing through, people hiding from something, people starting over. I don’t ask questions as long as you show up on time and do your job.” She closes her locker with a decisive click. “Speaking of which, you’re on the second floor tomorrow. Room 237 is hosting some kind of birthday party tonight, so prepare yourself.”
With that, she’s gone, leaving me with the unsettling feeling that while my specific identity remains a secret, Carmen sees more than she lets on.
As I gather my belongings, I spot a small notebook that must have fallen from Carmen’s locker. It’s open to a page with room numbers listed in Carmen’s neat handwriting, with check marks and notes beside each.
I should close it, return it to her locker, and walk away. That would be the right thing to do.
Instead, I find myself scanning the page, curiosity getting the better of me. The entries appear to be some kind of tracking system—rooms cleaned, maybe, or special requests from guests?
But then a note catches my eye: “Room 412 — Diamond earrings missing. Guest claims $5,200 value. Report filed.”
Below that, another entry: “Room 356 — Wallet missing from nightstand. $300 cash, cards canceled.”
And another: “Room 401 — Laptop disappeared during room cleaning. IT called re: security footage.”
I frown as I realize what I’m looking at. These aren’t routine housekeeping notes. These are theft reports—a series of them, concentrated on the upper floors of the hotel. Thefts that occurred while rooms were being cleaned, during hours when housekeeping staff would have access.
Carmen had mentioned something about missing items at a staff meeting earlier this week, but I hadn’t realized the situation was this serious or widespread. These aren’t just misplaced items—these are coordinated thefts.
I quickly snap a photo of the page with my phone before returning the notebook to Carmen’s locker. My mind races as I process this information. Valuable items disappearing from rooms during cleaning hours? That can’t be a coincidence.
And it certainly can’t be good for a new housekeeper with a suspiciously thin employment history.