10. Chapter 10 #2
She speaks his language. She pivots when he pushes back. She reframes objections as opportunities.
And when he asks a technical question about occupancy optimization that I don't have the answer to, she steps in with a stat about seasonal demand patterns in Caribbean markets that I'm ninety percent sure she just made up but sounds authoritative enough that he nods and moves on.
The sustainability angle lands exactly the way she said it would.
"This is good," Castellano says forty minutes in, tapping the desk. "This is actually very good. Most firms try to sell me software and analytics. You're talking about my brand, my guests, my impact."
"That's the partnership model," Darcy says. "We're not trying to replace what makes Meridian unique. We're trying to amplify it."
He looks at her. "How long have you been doing this?"
"Long enough to know that boutique hospitality isn't about scale. It's about story. And Meridian has a story worth telling."
He smiles. Actually smiles. "I like her. She can stay."
I don't mention that she's a receptionist covering for Beatrice and that this is her first client meeting.
We close the pitch with next steps. Castellano's team will review the proposal. We'll schedule a follow-up in two weeks.
He shakes my hand, shakes Darcy's hand, and leaves, exuding the energy of someone considering writing a very large check.
The conference room door closes behind him, and the second he's gone, Darcy and I look at each other.
"Did that just work?" she asks, hazel eyes alight.
"That just worked."
"He smiled. He never smiles. I read three articles about him and none of them mentioned smiling."
I snort, gathering papers. "You read three articles about him?"
"You said I had eighteen minutes. I used fifteen of them productively."
I look up again, and notice that Darcy’s cheeks are flushed.
Her olive skin is the same hue it was back in Tulum, the same color it turned when her body — wet and warm and writhing in the Tulum humidity — moaned my name in bed.
And it’s never been more clear….
I need to stop thinking about Tulum, about the night that never should have happened.
And I’m about to say just that, when the screen on the conference room monitor lights up.
Wyeth's face appears.
"Well," he says. "That was impressive."
I'd forgotten he was wired in remotely.
"Wyeth—"
"The sustainability reframe was smart. The seasonal demand stat was either brilliant or completely fabricated. And Miss Madison," he looks at her through the camera, "you just sold a pitch that I've been trying to sell for three months."
Darcy blinks. "I didn't realize anyone else was on the call."
"I was in observation mode. Silent partnering." He leans forward. "Where did you work before this?"
"Miami. Boutique hotel operations."
"Doing what?"
"Everything. Front desk. Guest services. Event coordination. Whatever needed doing."
"For how long?"
"Two years."
Wyeth is quiet for a moment. Then he looks at me. "Dec. Me and you. Five minutes."
The screen goes dark, and Darcy’s gaze goes to me again.
"Is that bad?" she asks.
"Don’t mind my brother. He likes to think he runs shit." I blink. "He doesn’t."
"He looked... intense."
"That's his normal face."
"Oh."
I should leave, should go video call Wyeth and have whatever conversation he's about to have with me about Darcy's unexpected competence.
But I'm still standing here looking at her.
"You did good work today," I say.
"Thank you."
"The seasonal demand stat. Was that real?"
She smiles. Just a little. "You'll never know."
"Miss Madison—"
“I’m just saying it’s more fun if you don't know. Keeps you on your toes."
"I'm your boss. I don't need to be on my toes."
"Everyone needs to be on their toes sometimes, Mr. Shaw. Keeps things interesting."
She picks up her notebook and walks toward the door, and I watch her go with the specific awareness that I just lost a negotiation I didn't know I was in.
Thirty seconds after, Wyeth's face is back on the monitor, waiting.
"Dec," he says through the screen. "We need to talk."
"You said in five minutes. That was hardly two." I turn back to the screen. "What seems to be the problem now, big bro?"
"No problem. Just wanted to say Darcy’s good," Wyeth says.
"I know."
"Better than the role we hired her for."
"I know that, too."
"You've been watching her."
"I've been managing the team while you’re soaking up California sun rays."
"Dec." Even through the video feed, I can see the look. The one he's been giving me since we were kids. "I've known you for the entire raggedy forty-seven years you’ve been alive. I know when you're managing the team and when you're... whatever this is."
"This is me recognizing talent."
"This is you looking at her the way you haven't looked at anyone." He pauses. "And you were looking at her that way during the entire meeting. Like you wanted to clear the table and throw her down on—"
"Wyeth."
"I'm just saying. If I noticed through a camera feed, Castellano definitely noticed in person."
"There's nothing to notice."
"Right. That's why you went perfectly still when he shook her hand."
I don't have a response to that.
Because he's right.
"In any event, I think we should promote her," Wyeth says, fingers steepling on the screen. "Hospitality Coordinator. Starting next week. She's wasted at the front desk."
A moment of silence passes before I nod.
"Fine," I answer.
"Fine?"
"That’s what I said. She’s earned it."
"She did." He leans back in his chair — I can see the LA office behind him through the window. "Just... be careful."
"Of what?"
"Whatever you're doing in that office that has you staring at a twenty-four-year-old like she’s a cold beer after crossing the Sahara." He's quiet for a moment. "For what it's worth? I haven't seen you this engaged in the business in years. Just... don't fuck it up."
The screen goes dark, and I stand in the conference room alone, processing the fact that Wyeth — who notices everything — has been watching me watch Darcy from three thousand miles away.
And that I'm apparently not as subtle as I thought.
I've spent three weeks being professionally distant, enforcing the rules, developing boundaries that are supposed to make this manageable.
And today I pulled her into a client meeting on less than twenty minutes’ notice, watched her rewrite my pitch in three minutes, and stood there afterward being... nice.
Which is not part of the plan.
The plan is to be the consummate professional until the annulment goes through.
The plan is not noticing the way she handles difficult clients, the way she thinks on her feet, or the way she says "Mr. Shaw" in a way that makes me think about tying her to my bedpost with her own panties.
Swearing under my breath, I finish gathering the meeting materials, just as I notice something else.
My tan from Mexico is starting to fade.
I can see it on my hands, on my forearms where my shirtsleeves are rolled up.
Three weeks ago I was watching my brother get married and trying very hard not to notice the brunette in the rose-gold dress.
And then I accidentally married that brunette. Before she showed up at my office.
And now I'm standing in an empty conference room where her perfume still lingers, replaying the way she looked when Castellano challenged her — that tilt of her head, an absolute refusal to back down.
The same defiance she showed me in Tulum.
Except now I know what Darcy Madison is capable of in a professional setting.
And to be honest…
It’s almost as goddamn intoxicating as what we did in that Mexican hotel room.
Her neck. My mouth on the pulse point just below her ear.
The small sound she made when I sucked hard enough to leave a mark — a possessive, primitive thing I had no business doing to a woman I'd known for three days.
The way her breath hitched when my hand slid between her thighs in that hotel shower at two AM, water streaming over us while I worked her with my fingers until her knees buckled and I had to hold her up against the tile.
The taste of her.
Christ, the taste of her.
I'd spent twenty minutes with my face buried between her legs, her hands fisted in my hair, her thighs trembling on either side of my head while she came on my tongue twice before she finally begged me to stop.
And then four hours later — four-thirty AM, both of us half-asleep — when she'd rolled over and kissed me and ended up straddling my hips, sinking down onto my cock with her head thrown back and my hands gripping her ass, guiding her rhythm while she rode me slow and deep.
The image of her above me — dark hair falling over her shoulders, gorgeous tits bouncing with each movement, that flush spreading across her chest — is burned into my memory.
Right along with the way her pussy clenches tight when she's right on the edge.
The way she said my name in that breathless, desperate voice that made me want to flip her over and fuck her harder just to hear it again.
So, yeah, my tan is fading.
But whatever I thought would fade with it — this undeniable pull to the dark-haired, golden-eyed woman I accidentally married — isn't fading at all.
If anything… it's getting worse.