14. Sean
The next morning, as per usual, Jess is already at her desk when I arrive, wearing a lavender outfit. I wonder how early she gets up and if this is a regular occurrence, or if she’s just doing it to avoid seeing me at our apartment building. Either way, somehow, she always manages to arrive before I do.
“Hey,” she says, glancing up at me. “Thank you for my…for the envelope.”
Every time I see her, she’s more beautiful. “You’re welcome.”
“Did you get a chance to check over that contract I sent you yesterday?”
It’s hilarious how she changed topics.
“I did. We need to change it.”
Her face falls. “Why? What’s your problem with it?”
“My concern is that we aren’t charging enough for a group that will be reserving seventy-five percent of the hotel’s capacity. In New York City, I know for certain, there’s no other hotel in our quality range charging less.”
“This isn’t about the numbers. Or at least it shouldn’t be. Schuster and Flint have been having their corporate retreat here for years. They were one of the first groups I booked when I bought the hotels and they’ve been supporting us ever since.”
“Your loyalty is commendable, but not sustainable. Furthermore, the cancellation policy is not up to our standards.”
“Our policy is lenient, given our high occupancy in this area,” she argues.
“We need to be stricter. We should firmly enforce a seven-day cancellation policy and charge for one night if they try to cancel within that time frame. It’s common practice in NYC and will help us manage reservations, ensuring rooms aren’t left unoccupied due to last-minute cancellations.”
“Well…for new reservations,” she says, “it’s not a big deal. But for returning guests, I know there’s going to be pushback. How about we grandfather them into the new price and policy?”
“This is revenue that you’re missing out on by being too nice,” I argue. “We make the rules here, not them. It’s going to ruffle a few feathers, but they’ll get used to it.”
Jess leans back in her chair as she spins from side to side. “We have older clients who have been coming here for years, and I don’t want to lose their business just because we’re changing things.”
“Jess, you can’t please everyone, and you’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep trying. We’re running a business here, they know that, and we know that. We can’t make exceptions for everyone just because they piss and moan about it.”
“It doesn’t sound right to me. The reason why we’re doing so well is because I’ve cultivated relationships with our guests. I hate the thought of throwing that aside just for corporate sake. How about this? Let’s bend the rules a bit for Schuster and Flint, just this once.” She pauses her spinning, meeting my gaze with a playful twinkle in her eyes. “I’m confident that Mr. Sean Blackwood, our undisputed CEO, can effortlessly accommodate, don’t you think?”
I suppress a smile.
Quite frankly, I anticipated more resistance, and I’m pleased we can navigate constructively. Enduring daily battles with my father is sufficient—I have no desire for them in other aspects of my life.
I don’t have to contemplate.
“All right, we make an exception for them,” I concede with a nod. “However, all reservations in the future will need to follow the new policy. Let’s hope they don’t cancel on us.”
Her face lights up. “They won’t, I’m sure! They’re a group that indulges in the restaurant, and you’ll see they make their stay worth our while.”
“All right.”
She studies me for a moment, eyebrows suddenly knitting together with concern. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine—why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. You gave in way too easy.”
“I didn’t give in to anything. I see your point. You know your customers and you know what their expectations are, that’s good enough for me.”
She gives me another bright smile, and it makes my stomach clench. “Thanks, Sean. I appreciate that. And no worries, I can talk to my contact at Schuster and Flint and prepare them for the changes. We’ve been working with them for years, and you’re right, I should update the contract to be aligned with industry standards.”
“See what you can do.”
Ihead to my office, and work on my usual morning tasks in comfortable silence.
In the late afternoon after her break, Jess stops by my office, lavender sunglasses perched on her head, matching her outfit. “I meant to tell you: the interior designer put a couple of small finishing touches on the Presidential Suite. That means all renovations are officially complete. Do you want to go check it out?”
“Yeah, sure.” I get up, ready to stretch my legs for a bit.
We exit the office.
I bring the conversation to the marketing agency’s plan, suggesting exclusive partnerships with local cultural institutions, curated in-house experiences, and a strategic social media campaign—to elevate WH’s status in NYC.
“I read the email this morning. I’m glad I don’t have to take care of it in any way,” Jess says, her voice filled with relief.
“I told you Blackwood was here to make your life easier.”
“I will admit that you did say that. And I love the practices that they’re going to implement to streamline things.”
“See? It won’t be so bad for Blackwood to run things.”
She smirks at me, saying, “Don’t push your luck, CEO.”
“I would never,” I say, strolling with her through the sunny lobby.
“I was wondering about the charity event next week.” She gestures to the wall behind the lobby. “How much budget do we have for the art piece?”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” I suggest.
“One hundred thousand?” she whispers in shock, looking at me in disbelief. “Are you serious, Sean?”
“Yeah, why? Not enough?”
“No, I didn’t expect that much. With that amount, we’ll snag the piece for sure!” She enthusiastically explains how the timing lines up perfectly with Schuster and Flint’s arrival, how she appreciates that the hotel will greet them in all its glory. She’s convinced the artist is a hidden gem in New York and predicts a significant spike in the price. According to her, the artist’s drawing will not only enhance the lobby’s atmosphere but also turn it into a go-to spot for magazines looking for a captivating backdrop.
“Why do you go to the yearly event?” she asks as I press the elevator button.
“My late mother founded the charity,” I inform her. “‘Grand Hospitality Affair’ was her idea.”
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh, I had no idea!”
“Yeah, it was her vision, despite my father’s protests. She and one of our board members brought it to life.”
“I’m sorry to hear your mother died.”
“It was a long-term illness. She was battling it for several years before she eventually passed.”
“I truly am sorry.”
“It happened a long time ago,” I assure her, sparing her from how watching my mother’s strength gradually diminish during my childhood years affected me. How angry I was at my father’s denial of the severity of the situation. The sleepless nights I spent wondering if there was more I could have done to influence my father’s decisions. “She was an influential and compassionate figure. You could say she was a marvel of productivity who handled various responsibilities. Despite her impact, she remained humble, generous, and genuinely connected with people.”
We step into the elevator. “What’s her name?”
“Mary. Mary Irene Blackwood.” I pull out my phone and scroll through my photos as we ride up. Most of them are hotel location photos. Some are goofy pics of Connor insisting I capture “the Irish hunk” and me—there are tons of him or us posing in front of our bikes in the middle of nowhere. Jess leans in when I find my favorite pic. In it, my mom is in the middle of planting flowers, holding a well-worn yet cherished hand trowel she inherited from Granny. She’s wearing a big summer hat with a huge yellow bow. Even though the hat casts a shadow over half her face, there are crinkles around her eyes formed by her infectious laughter. My father is crouching beside her, casual in khaki shorts and a white T-Shirt, with a tender smile on his face. It’s a smile I haven’t seen in years.
“It’s a beautiful photo. I bet she was a wonderful woman.”
“She was.” I pocket my phone.
The Presidential Suite looks satisfying. I’ve seen pictures of how it looked prior to the renovation, and Jess had certainly done a good job in picking the interior design firm. The room features serene, earthy tones, a king-size bed with luxurious linens that match the harmonious color scheme, next to an opulent marble bathroom with a deep soaking tub. Tasteful decor accents and fresh white tulips in white vases add to the welcoming touch. I pull out my phone and add the firm to Blackwood’s list of vendors.
“I’m never gonna get tired of this view,” Jess says, wandering over to the large windows. It’s a bright day outside, the sky a clear blue without a cloud. From where the suite is positioned in the building, it offers a nice view of the NYC skyline.
“I’ve lived here a long time, and I still never get tired of it myself.” I move to stand next to her, my hands shoved into my pockets, facing the skyline. I maintain a gap from the window though. “But I’ll admire it from a distance. Heights aren’t my thing.”
I don’t know why I choose to stand so close nonetheless—the drop below is quite daunting. There’s ample space, and I could shift a fraction to the left to create a more reasonable gap from the edge. Yet, doing so would also increase the distance between us, and I choose not to. I enjoy her citrus perfume subtly wafting my way.
When she glances over at me, those lips of hers are curved into a smirk. “So…you are human after all,” she says softly.
Unsure what she’s talking about, I grumble, “Why do you say that?”
“Because the only thing you ever talk about is work. Even in the morning, when you greet me, you immediately launch into professional matters. To hear you admire something, let alone share a personal family photo, is surprising. Not to mention to hear you have a fear of something is rather human.”
“Did I strike you as inhuman?” I ask.
Redness blooms across her cheeks, and I notice her chest move as her breathing picks up. “Do you really want to know what I thought about you when we first met?” There’s a playfulness in her tone, and I’m intrigued and curious.
“Humor me.”
She studies me for a moment, as if she’s unsure how best to answer. Then she turns around to face me and rests her back against the window.
I resist a sudden urge to reach out and prevent her from falling.
Instead, I focus on what she’s wearing. Today she’s in a form-fitting pantsuit. Normally, that doesn’t do anything for me, but for some reason, on her it looks good. The lavender jacket is unbuttoned, revealing a tight white shirt, with a neckline that dips tantalizingly low. Seeing it so close reminds me of when her body was pressed against mine and the tops of her breasts spilled out of that dress.
“Think you can handle it?” she challenges, smiling, tilting her head playfully.
That’s when her sunglasses slip off her head, hitting the floor with several taps. We both kneel to grab them, and our hands touch in the process. Energy shoots through me at the skin contact, and my dick twitches.
When we get back up, she’s closer than before, showing no inclination to retreat.
I’m even more curious where this is going than I was a second ago. I’m startled to realize the expression on her face is pretty damn close to what I pictured it being last night in my fantasy, and blood travels straight south.
I place a hand on the pane of glass, resting against it casually next to her head, bringing us face to face. My other hand stays in my jacket pocket, preventing me from touching her.
“I can handle anything,” I rumble.
“Are you sure?” Her voice sounds breathy.
“Tell me.”
She drops her hands and arches her back just enough without actually touching. Her voice is hoarse when she says, “Mr. Grumpy King…the undisputed grumpiness monarch.”
A bit lengthy, but I’ve been called worse. Actually, “undisputed” and “monarch,” has a ring to it. “Clearly that wasn’t much of a deal-breaker, considering what happened later at the bar.”
She laughs, a low giggle that I feel as much as hear. The warmth of her body calls to me, mixes with my own, and my breathing matches hers.
“At the time, no, it wasn’t. Especially since I had already gotten a glimpse of what you had to offer.”
“And you liked what you saw?” I ask in an undertone.
“The jury’s still out.” Our gazes lock. “Yes,” she says, softly, breathless. “Because I always wondered…”
She blinks, as if contemplating whether to share it with me. Just when I think she might have reconsidered, and I’m about to urge her with an “Out with it, now,” she says, “Why didn’t you kiss me that night?”
Not what I expected.
Her breath hitches, and the air between us crackles with anticipation. She isn’t just referring to the clumsy opportunity when she slipped and her chest collided with me, but to her award-winning late-night plea for a goodnight kiss. My veins ignite with heat. My cock stiffens in response to her. Her blue eyes remain fixed on mine, drawing us into a magnetic, charged moment.
“Kissing is something to be done with a clear mind,” I rumble. “I didn’t want you to live with regrets.”
She lifts her head, bringing her lips closer to mine. “I wouldn’t have.” Only a few inches separate our mouths. “Maybe…you know…” she whispers hoarsely, “we should practice kissing for the charity event?”
I can feel her breath on my lips.
All I need to do is dip my head.
Nobody will expect us to kiss at the charity event next week. That’s what my expression tells her.
Her expression nonchalantly tells me she couldn’t care less.
I want to close the distance between us. Not that there’s much of one right now. She lessens it even more by lifting her head a little higher. Now that there’s hardly any space left between us, everything we said about sticking to professionalism doesn’t matter. I think about last night, about picturing her in my bed, my dick inside her, and how hot and heavy we would be. It’d be so easy to follow through, to lock the door to this suite and take advantage of that king-sized bed. Or that bathtub. Or just my strength.
Her eyes grow hooded as they flicker to my lips and then back up to meet my gaze, telling me that she’s thinking the same exact thing.
Her citrus perfume invades my nostrils.
With each breath, her breasts graze my chest.
With each graze, my cock jerks.
Almost instinctively, my hand withdraws from my pocket, and finds its way to cradle her face. She lets out a small gasp. Softly, my fingertips begin grazing her cheek. At that simple contact, I feel her heartbeat echo against my chest, her nipples pressing into me with each exhale.
I cradle her neck and dip my head, slowly.
Deeper and deeper.
Until our lips touch.
When our mouths finally meet, it’s a soft collision.
I’m struck by the feel of her, the softness of her lips, by the taste of her. It’s a subtle mix of coffee and something uniquely her own. It’s intoxicating, a flavor that lingers in my senses. But there’s more. I can taste the tension, the thrill of breaking the rules, and the sheer intoxication of crossing that line. We both know this is forbidden territory.
Neither of us cares.
The moment my tongue finds hers for the first time, she releases a soft moan.
With a delicate urgency, her fingers reach to cling to the lapel of my dark-blue jacket.
We’re not just kissing.
I devour her mouth, and she devours mine.
The more minutes tick by, the more I lose myself, the more intoxicated I feel. My hand holds her neck, then brushes to her throat and from there, slides farther down. We kiss like we’re in a trance, like we’re possessed.
My hand glides over her breast, and her nipple puckers under my touch.
After what seems like an eternity of shameless making out, I start pulling away. There’s an immediate protest. Her hands cling to me, and she utters a whispered “Not yet…”
She doesn’t want my kiss to stop.
So, I don’t.
Both my hands fully cup her breasts as I deepen the kiss again, finding her tongue, tracing her firm nipple through the white cotton. She lets out several soft moans and bucks her hips against my thigh.
I’m hard as a rock. How long does it take for the tub to fill? Already, I picture myself hoisting her over my shoulder and marching toward our wet destination.
Just when I reach for her hips, from outside the suite door, there’s the unmistakable rattling of the housekeeping cart.
There’s a glimmer of disappointment on Jess’s face, but she immediately straightens herself and steps away.
“This didn’t happen,” she says. “I mean, it was fake. Just a training exercise,” she adds and increases the distance between us, straightening her clothes and adjusting her sunglasses.
It was fake?
Just a training exercise?
What the fuck?
Is she having regrets?
When Pauline walks in, conducting a quality inspection and providing instructions to the housekeeper next to her, Jess is adjusting one of the paintings on the wall while I remain standing by the window. If I wasn’t thrown off by what she said, the entire situation would be hilarious.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” Pauline apologizes, swiveling her gaze from Jess to me and back to her. “So? What do you guys think?” she asks, seemingly oblivious to the tension she just interrupted.
“I think it looks great,” Jess chirps with the usual pep in her voice, as if I only imagined having her tongue in my mouth. “And I’m glad all the renovations are finally complete.” She looks at me. “Right, Mr. Blackwood?”
“Right. The interior designer did a good job,” I agree with a nod. “I’ll leave you to it then. Don’t forget we have a conference meeting tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t worry, I have an excellent memory.”
The double meaning isn’t lost on me.