Wrong Room, Right Billionaire (Unintentionally Yours #21)

1. Morgan

Morgan

“If he was my brother, I would have decked him,” my personal assistant Donovan chortles as we make our way out of the boardroom into the lobby of the resort.

But I’m not laughing.

After that meeting my jaw is locked too hard to even manage a smile.

Not that I’m in a smiling mood.

Donovan, being my right-hand man since day one, can sense this. Hell, I think everyone within a ninety-foot radius of me right now can probably tell.

“You can’t let him get to you, Morgan,” Donovan says as we make our way towards the bar.

“Conrad does this at every meeting. He acts all cocky and gets mouthy with you in front of a room full of suits and ties just to ruffle your feathers. He’s jealous because you are the heir to the throne that is Bale Resorts and he’s not.

He’s the spare…” He chuckles at his own joke.

“Yeah, well, he’s also a pain in my ass,” I snap. “He’s out of line, challenging me in front of the board.”

“I know,” Donovan says. And he does know. He knows the entire history of Bale, good details and bad. “But you gotta let it go. Bale is a success. Like you said, the numbers show it. A couple of bad reviews can’t touch that.”

“He’s always been like this. Even before our…” I cut myself off immediately.

“Conrad does have one point, though,” Donovan says as we reach the bar.

I cut him a look.

“Not about the company. About you never staying at your resorts.”

I take the drink the bartender sets in front of me.

“You know who runs this? Who does the numbers and the meetings, the finances and the project management and everything else it takes to keep a dozen luxury resorts from sinking? The man behind the fucking desk, that’s who.

And then he has the audacity to bring up that Bale Resorts aren’t what they used to be. ”

“And yet here you are.”

I glance around the Sapphire Keys. White marble. Tropical flowers. A waterfall in the middle of the lobby because apparently an ocean outside isn’t enough. Guests drift past in linen and sundresses with expensive cocktails in hand.

I don’t care what Conrad says. Bale Resorts is luxury at its finest, right here in Miami.

But maybe I’m tired of hearing about a place I own from everyone except the people actually staying in it.

By the time the bartender sets a second drink down in front of me, I realize I’m not in the mood to go back to the office.

Or home for that matter.

“I’m going to stay the night,” I tell Donovan, shoving up from the bar stool.

“At the office?” he asks. “No disrespect, Morgan, but I don’t think pulling an all-nighter is going to ease the tension from the meeting.”

“Here,” I tell him and Donovan blinks. “He is right. I never spend any time at the resorts. So I’m going to hang out here for a while. Get a feel for Bale Resorts and see why customer reviews are not where they should be.”

“That works too,” he says, falling into step with me as I march into the lobby.

The lobby of the Sapphire Keys is open and vaulted, refreshingly cool compared to the midsummer Miami heat outside.

By the time Donovan and I cross from the bar toward the front desk, the beads of perspiration along my hairline—recently flecked with silver in lieu of my forty-fifth birthday—have finally disappeared.

We respectfully stand in line. Obviously I could walk around the counter if I wanted. But the best way to observe customer service is to be a customer. Donovan doesn’t question it.

That’s when I see her.

The woman waiting ahead of us.

She’s tall, deliciously curvy, with honey brown hair, dressed like every other guest here.

But there is something about her that is less like everyone else. Something I can’t pinpoint.

She turns just enough for me to catch her profile while she talks to the kid behind the desk, smiling like whatever he just told her made her entire day.

The funny thing about her is she doesn’t seem to notice me watching her.

Most people notice me.

Especially women.

Maybe it’s my height. The way I stand, with purpose. Steady and deliberate. Or maybe it’s my two-thousand-dollar suit.

Or maybe it’s that you look like your father.

That or Gerard Butler. I’ve been confused for him more than once.

Either way, people recognize me, a reminder that these resorts are mine.

And women who recognize me are usually only looking for one thing. Money.

But this girl, with her hourglass figure, beach-wave hair, rosy cheeks and even rosier lips, has zero idea that I am staring at her.

And something about that is intriguing.

“This is wonderful,” she says with a smile in her voice.

She spins around and grabs her bag off the floor. It’s a brightly colored suitcase, small enough to be a carry-on, and every inch of it is tattooed in stickers. Either places she’s been or places she wants to go.

I watch her walk away toward the elevators, her hips swaying with every step.

“Next,” the kid at the desk calls, breaking me out of my trance.

I step forward.

“Executive suite,” I say.

The clerk hands me the key.

I pocket it without another thought.

All I want now is a room, ten minutes of silence, and a shower hot enough to wash Conrad Bale and the entire fucking board meeting off me.