No Room For Rivals (Hotel Bellwether #3)

Chapter One

Ivy

Seal the Deal Weekend.

The banner above the hotel reception desk flicks me right between the eyes.

I freeze mid-step. My rolling suitcase… not so much.

It rams into my calves with a vengeance.

My iPad digs into my ribs, my green smoothie lid pops off, and for one horrifying second, I see my entire powder-blue suit destroyed in a radioactive splash of spinach.

I snap the cap on just in time.

Crisis averted.

Except it’s not. There’s a career-ending sign mocking me from across the lobby, and that thing is arguably worse than death by kale smoothie.

“Shit.” The word slips out. “Shit. SHIT!”

It’s supposed to say sea lion. Not seal.

Not bark-bark, claps-for-fish, balances-a-ball-on-its-nose seal.

I stare at the display, willing it to fix itself.

Look, I get it. Seals and sea lions are both cute, flippered, water puppies that smell like a low-tide seafood buffet. But we’re not saving seals. We’re saving sea lions. The ones with ear flaps. The ones that walk. The literal stars of this whole event!

“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “It’s fine. This is fine.”

Fine?! The banner might as well say “Ivy Ellison: Unemployed by Monday” in hot pink Comic Sans.

The conversion metrics on this slogan are going to be catastrophic. I engineered “Single. Mingle. Save the Sea Lions,” which tested at a 73% recall rate and was vetted across all age demographics. I ran it past three focus groups, two marketing consultants, and my landlord.

“Seal the Deal” sounds like the tagline for a sketchy hookup app.

I’m supposed to be crafting unforgettable content for Saltwater Saviors, the fearless, wetsuit-wearing badasses who rescue entangled sea lions in life-threatening waves and call it a Tuesday.

They’re real-world environmental superheroes, and I’ve only got 72 hours to make this their biggest fundraiser yet.

Three million dollars in three days.

The marketing concept is genius: a partnership with Hotel Bellwether for their first-ever singles activism weekend. Gorgeous singles spending their days cleaning beaches together and their nights falling in love over shared passions for ocean conservation. It’s activism with a side of romance.

The company I work for, Dare4Change, was brought in to create content so irresistible that people forget they are just here to flirt and take pics. The mission: dominate feeds, drain wallets for the cause, and make sea lion rescues trend harder than Taylor Swift’s next album.

Instead, I’m watching tourists snap selfies under a banner that makes my stomach churn.

“Oh. My. God!” A woman with a bleached ponytail, swinging like a metronome, in head-to-toe lavender Lululemon bounces past me. “This place has no business being this fabulous. Find my soulmate and save some seals? I’m obsessed!”

I smile. I nod. I die inside.

But her hotel worship? Totally justified.

Hotel Bellwether is stunning. Absolute Instagram gold with its iconic red roof and ocean views.

Famous author Belle Wether built it in 1903 after her husband died, supposedly pouring her broken heart into every detail.

Now it’s a legendary romance destination, complete with a wish-granting fountain that hopeless romantics throw quarters into (like me. Three quarters actually).

… okay, four. Don’t make it a thing.

The Victorian lobby wraps around you like an embrace you weren’t expecting—dark mahogany columns anchoring hand-carved balconies two stories high, built by craftsmen who knew this was their masterpiece.

A crystal chandelier drips from the coffered ceiling like frozen rain, casting warm light across a regal floor that has absorbed a lifetime of whispered promises.

In the middle is the iconic green velvet bench, where couples famously fall in love at first sight.

This place was designed to catfish anyone with a pulse.

Driving down from LA, I dared to daydream about allowing myself some flirtation this weekend. Finding a guy who sees my curves and thinks ‘hell yes’ instead of ‘maybe later when I’ve exhausted my other options.’ Someone who sees my take-charge attitude and analytical mind and…

I shut it down. I know where it leads. Straight into a spiral.

And spiraling leads to crying in hotel bathrooms.

And crying leads to blotchy eyeliner that no amount of patting with damp paper towels can fix.

But yeah. That’s my curse. I’m the participation trophy of dating. The silver medal. I’m the woman guys rediscover after they’ve crashed and burned pursuing girls with smaller waists and fewer opinions.

“Ivy, you’re different.”

Translation: You don’t require effort.

“I should’ve noticed you sooner.”

Translation: You were invisible until my Plan A ghosted me.

“You’re exactly what I need right now.”

Translation: I’ve downgraded my expectations.

Never the one they choose first.

I whisper my mantra. “You’re bold, you’re brilliant, you belong in the driver’s seat.”

A stupidly attractive guy wanders into view, and hello. Tall, polished, with sultry dark eyes that land on me. On my mumbling lips. He flinches.

Great. Wonderful. I’m totally not standing here muttering affirmations to a potted palm, I swear.

I flash my brightest I-am-not-a-crazy-woman smile and lift my smoothie in a jaunty little wave. He bolts for the elevator, never looking back.

Ugh. “You’re bold, you’re brilliant, you belong in the driver’s seat.”

This weekend needs to be flawless. Not good. Not passable. Flawless.

Because when the Director of Strategic Campaigns position opens up next month, I need to be the obvious choice. Not the safe choice, not the backup plan—the first damn choice.

But thanks to the abomination hanging above the reception desk, that dream is circling the drain.

“Hey… easy,” a voice says behind me. “You’re gonna melt that sign with your rage glare.”

That voice. Laid-back. Criminally sure of itself. And deep enough to feel it somewhere inconvenient.

Cole Hartwell. My work nemesis.

I whip around, primed to unleash a scathing comeback, and immediately realize…

I’m holding things.

My cup launches from my hand. Thick green liquid arcs majestically through the air. My powder-blue suit takes the hit.

KERSPLOOSH.

Cold gooey sludge splashes across my chest. My sleeve. My stomach. Something gelatinous hits my collarbone and starts sliding south. I can feel a chia seed, stuck to my cheek, judging me.

My iPad slips out of my grip.

“No—wait—”

I lunge. My heel slips.

Suddenly I’m pitching forward, arms pinwheeling like a malfunctioning inflatable tube man.

SMACK!

I collide with something rock-solid.

Not the tile floor.

Infinitely worse.

A muscular chest.

His scent hits me first. Salt and spice and the allure of sin, as if he bathed in the ocean and then rolled in a barrel of whiskey. Because of course Cole Hartwell would smell like trouble you wanna drink straight from the bottle.

My hands have a mind of their own, flattening against his chest. I tilt my head back. His brunette hair is messy in a way that feels intentional, and his eyes—those insufferable, calm, steel-blue eyes—spark the second they land on my face.

Gah! That smirk. I owe him one and he knows it. Makes me want to punch him.

“Shit! My iPad!”

I’m on my knees, scanning the floor like I’ve lost a contact lens. My heart slams. That tablet holds my entire life: metrics, timelines, approvals. Without it, I am professionally dead.

Cole chuckles, lifting the device with a careless flick of his wrist. “Don’t panic. I caught it.” His smirk deepens. “And I caught you. No need to thank me. Unless you want to.”

I snatch the device back, but my eyes linger.

Why are his forearms always out? And have they always been that muscular?

His biceps strain against his black T-shirt, begging to be set free. His ripped jeans tell a story of reckless choices and no remorse, and his boots? They yell, “I answer to instinct,” except now they’re baptized in green goo.

“Sorry about your—” I gesture vaguely at his feet.

“Leather,” he says cheerfully. “Built to take abuse.” His gaze travels slowly down to my chest. And stays there. His pupils widen.

I glance down at my once-white blouse, which has gone translucent. It’s clinging and shouting my most intimate secrets to a lobby full of strangers.

Tits-tastic.

In five seconds I’ve gone from “serious professional” to “meet my nipples.”

“It’s fine.” My voice squeaks. “I’m fine. This is soooo fine.” I’m a broken bobblehead who can’t stop nodding. “I mean, it’s a disaster—a full-blown, five-alarm disaster—but disasters are opportunities in ugly disguises! Totally fixable.”

“Sure.” His grin turns absolutely wicked.

“Oh, shut up,” I say as I maul my suitcase zipper. “Some of us come prepared for life. We don’t blindly Godzilla our way through everything.”

My fingers dig through layers of “just-in-case” items: extra production shoes, a bikini I absolutely will not wear, high-range walkies, three backup chargers (because a dead battery is a personal failure). I shove past my “Production Bible” (tabbed for her pleasure) and then…

A miniature fire extinguisher? What can I say, I saw a TikTok.

Cole lands beside me and, without asking, reaches in.

“What are you—”

He pulls something out.

Red. Lacy. Enormous.

My bra.

He stops breathing.

Not just any bra. This is the “Yes They’re Real, and Yes They Look Magnificent in Red Lace” ego-booster I’d packed in a moment of delusional optimism, thinking maybe I’d meet someone who’d want to peel it off me slowly.

His eyes go to the cups and back. He tilts his head, studying them as if he’s troubleshooting a physics problem involving gravity and my giant breasts.

I can hear his thoughts. Okay, what size melons are we talking here? Cantaloupe? Honeydew? Oh my God, these are full-on watermelons!

“Emergency lingerie?” he says. “Now that’s a backup plan I can get behind.”

“Put it back,” I hiss.

When a throat clears, we both glance up.

A hotel employee stands holding a stack of towels and the kind of sympathetic smile reserved for people who fall down stairs in public.

“Miss?” she asks gently. “Might I assist you?”

I reclaim my bra from Cole and jam it into my suitcase. “Thank you so much,” I say cheerily. “A minor beverage malfunction. Totally fine.”

Cole stands in one infuriatingly graceful motion and offers me his hand.

I ignore it and haul myself upright.

SQLUUURRRPPPFFFFF.

The sound escaping my pants is wet, squelchy, and juicy, like I just gave birth to a jellyfish. The noise bounces around the soaring, wood-paneled ceiling in a rhythmic pinball of pure humiliation.

I accept the towels with a muttered thank-you. The employee nods and quickly disappears.

“Hey, glass half full,” Cole snickers, “at least you’re committing to the whole ocean conservation theme. I can go grab some kelp from the beach if you want to really nail this mermaid look.”

I stop dabbing uselessly at my chest. “I don’t have time for you. This is my shoot.”

“That’s weird because my schedule says otherwise, Stopwatch.”

The nickname hits as it always does. Annoying. Unoriginal. So why does it still get to me?

“Your schedule is wrong, Cole.”

He straightens slightly, eyes flicking to my iPad, then back to my face. “You’ve got that maniacal look again.”

“This is the face of someone who’s this close to using your boot as a bludgeoning tool.”

“Kinky. So you enjoy getting your hands dirty? Good to know.”

“Listen, Hartwell, the girls at the office might fall for your cocky one-liners, but I am immune. You’re not going to breeze in here and turn my entire campaign into a circus with your last-minute inspirations.”

“You make spontaneity sound like a felony.”

“In campaign production, it is!”

“Right. Heaven forbid we capture something genuine before focus-grouping it to death.”

My hands ball into fists. “My campaigns are completely genuine!”

“Sure they are. About as natural as a Kardashian Christmas.”

“That’s not even—” I sputter, then catch myself. “That analogy makes zero sense! I think the word you’re desperately searching for is practical.”

“Being flexible is practical. You should try it sometime.”

“I’m flexible!”

“Uh-huh. I just saw a fire extinguisher in your suitcase. You’re packing for unlikely disasters. Very on brand, Stopwatch.”

“This is scheduled as a one-producer campaign,” I say through my teeth. “And I am that producer.”

“And I,” he says pleasantly, “am also a producer. Wild coincidence.”

“For the last time, why are you here, Hartwell?”

His eyes wander the lobby as if the answer’s hiding in the crown molding. He tips his chin toward the Seal The Deal banner. “Guess they thought you needed a babysitter.”

“I did not approve this sign!” My voice spikes so high marine wildlife three miles offshore just flinched.

“Relax. I’m messing with you. I got an email. Said I should be here this weekend.”

I’m forcing my iPad awake before the words “What email?” can leave my mouth.

Inbox. Refresh. Refresh again, you piece of—

And there it is. Sitting at the top of my screen like a digital middle finger. I tap.

You have got to be kidding me.

The screen reads:

Congratulations! You and Cole Hartwell have been shortlisted for the Director of Strategic Campaigns position. The next two days will serve as your final evaluation.

The last twenty minutes click together—an epiphany from hell. His casual arrival. The smirk. The way he watched me spiral. He knew the whole time. Every mortifying, basically topless second.

“Ohhh,” I say slowly. “So this is a game?”

His grin deepens. “May the best producer win, Stopwatch.”

Cute. He thinks he has a chance.

I don’t play games. I end them.

And this? This is war.