by Jordyn White
The sound of Pierce’s motorcycle is so loud, I realize he’s been approaching for a while before it finally got my attention. The sound draws the notice of Mr. Rivers, too. When he calmly glances up to find the source of the noise, his eyes land on me. He halts.
All I hear is the sound of my heart beating in my ears. It’s a long, long second that Rayce Rivers and I look directly at one another. I’m vaguely aware of Elizabeth Rivers backing out of her spot, of Pierce approaching as she drives away, and of my insides growing hot and still.
I pull my gaze away, forcing myself to stop staring at the owner of the Rivers Paradise Resort like he’s some guy at the end of the bar.
Pierce makes a U-turn in front of me and comes to a stop, the scent of exhaust heavy in the air. Eyes on the ground in front of me, I chant to myself, Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. I grab the helmet off the back and look just before I put it on. He’s not next to his door anymore. He’s wandered several steps closer, hovering near the trunk, staring at me. He seems surprised to see me. Not surprised to see a person, or surprised that the person was looking at him. No, I get the feeling that he’s surprised to see me.
I don’t understand it, but I drop my eyes, plop the helmet over my head, straddle the bike, and wrap my arms around Pierce’s waist.
I don’t allow myself to look again, even when we pass right by him. As we drive away, headed for the service ramp, I catch a glimpse of Mr. Rayce Rivers in the side mirror. He’s still standing by the trunk of his car, both hands in his pockets, watching us drive away.
Over the next week, I see Mr. Connor Rivers several times, usually chatting up Alice or one of the other managers. I see Ms. Elizabeth Rivers once, from afar. I don’t see Mr. Rayce Rivers again at all.
Thank God. Once was quite enough. That moment in the garage has been darting in and out of my thoughts ever since as it is.
I still catch myself looking for him, and my heart rate speeds up every time I pass his car in the garage, but I’m sure that will go away with time. Won’t it? Meanwhile, I’m just glad our paths don’t cross more often. Men who look like that are dangerous.
I’m past the formal training stage, but still have a few things to learn about how things are done here. My coworkers have been helpful about showing me the ropes, but half the time I wonder if Alice is out to get me. She seems to put more work on me and have higher expectations of me than the others.
I don’t know if she’s trying to find out how much I can handle, or if this is to make up for being hired under dubious circumstances. But in spite of being a hard ass, she’s a pretty good teacher and I’m a quick learner, so I’ve been able to pick things up well enough, I think.
Several times, she’s asked about the personal chef services I used to do and how that works. At first I thought she was just curious, but something about the way she keeps bringing it up has me wondering. Do they pay the management well enough that she could afford it? Because if so, maybe this wouldn’t be a bad place to try to make a career. I mean, I’ll have to settle in somewhere.
I’m putting away warm, freshly laundered table linens on the bottom shelf of a storage closet when Alice sticks her head in the door. “Emma.” She curls her finger, beckoning me over, then disappears into the hall.
I straighten and close the cupboard doors with a soft thud before following her out. She’s waiting in the hallway next to a room service cart. It holds two trays, one with a plate covered by a silver dome and one holding a single set of silverware wrapped in a black cloth napkin, a little bowl of nuts, a tall wooden pepper grinder, and a collection of other condiments. There’s also a small carafe of ice water, but no glass.
“Take this upstairs to Mr. Rivers,” Alice says.
My heart begins to thump. Mr. Rivers? Me? What? Why? “Which one?”
She gives me a look, because it’s a stupid question. I’ve been here long enough to know that employees distinguish between the two brothers pretty simply. Connor Rivers is Mr. Connor Rivers and Rayce Rivers is simply Mr. Rivers. As if he is the Mr. Rivers and no further distinction is necessary.
Still, a girl can hope.
“Mr. Rayce Rivers.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I recall the image of him standing next to his car, our eyes locked. My heart flutters into my throat. “Why me?” Another misstep, but I can’t help it.
She gives me a sharp look. Though Alice is generally good to her employees, she has exacting standards and we are expected to live up. She’s the kind of person who doesn’t need to snap her fingers to make people jump. The look she’s giving me is usually sufficient.
“Sorry.”
“Since you’re new here, I’ll explain. If Mr. Rivers orders lunch from one of the restaurants, we use banquet staff to deliver whenever possible to reduce stress on the kitchens.”
I’m nodding contritely, because I know I’d damn well better. This explains why I’ve seen the occasional banquet server wheeling away a cart like this. I’ve always been busy with something else, and it didn’t concern me, so I’ve never asked about it.
“If his office door is open, you may knock briefly then go directly inside. If it’s closed, knock and wait for his answer.”
Crap. Is this really happening? My mind spins trying to come up with a way out of this.
“There’s a credenza on the right-hand side of his office. Park the cart in front. Ask if he would like you to place his meal there or on the desk. If he wants it on the credenza, unload this tray only.”
She places one finger on the tray with the domed plate.
“Set the remaining items directly on the credenza next to it. Tray, carafe, silverware, condiments, nuts.” As she goes through each item, she shifts her hand over an imaginary flat surface, indicating where each item should be placed.
Through her little speech, my eyebrows are slowly rising, temporarily distracted by these fussy instructions. “He’s very particular, isn’t he?”
“No.” I’m getting the look again. “I’m particular about how the owners of this resort should be served and cared for.”
I press my lips together, giving her an obedient nod. It didn’t take long to figure out she thinks pretty highly of the Rivers family. She proceeds to tells me precisely how to place everything should he want his lunch brought directly to his desk. My skin tingles at the thought of getting that close to him. I bite the inside of my cheek to make it stop. There are specific steps for dealing with the carafe of water, everything. I feel like I’m being given instructions for serving a king.
A really hot, sexy king who I’d rather avoid, if it’s all the same to everybody else. Not that I think he’d be interested anyway.
Then I remember the way he looked at me in the garage and my cheeks warm up.
Knock it off, Emma. Men like him aren’t interested in girls like you, and when they are it’s for the wrong reasons.
I’ve been down that road already.
“Bring the cart back with you. Do not leave it in his office. Should you be sent to pick items up when he’s finished, load everything neatly onto the cart without disturbing him. There is no need for discussion during pickups. Oh, since you’re new, be sure to introduce yourself when you arrive. That’s very important, but no need to make a fuss. Simply say, ‘I’m Emma and I have your lunch, Mr. Rivers.’ Do you have any questions?”
Yeah. Can somebody else please do this?
I shake my head.
“Good.” She turns smartly on her heels and heads for the Starlight Room. “Make it snappy. His food’s getting cold.”
Chapter 4
Rayce
I’ve managed not to look for her purposely, because that’s too much like stalking. But fuck. The mystery woman from the art show is an employee here. In banquet, based on the uniform she was wearing. That was jarring as hell, once I realized what she had on. Not only because that makes her off limits, but because that intriguing woman should be a guest at a place like this, not working in the bowels of banqu
et.
I don’t have a set pattern to the rounds I make. I like to keep an eye on things and don’t want people to know when I’m coming. But since seeing her a week ago, I’ve been to banquet twice. Even though I have no idea what good could possibly come from it, I couldn’t help but look for her.
Hell, everywhere I go, I look for her. Even picking up a pizza at Guido’s, I’m looking for her. It’s right at the bottom of the hill so I see employees in there often enough. But she’s been nowhere. Vanished, just like after the art show.
And now, as if the universe is serving her up on a silver platter, she appears right at my open office door.
I would think it was fate, if there weren’t just one problem.
“Excuse me, Mr. Rivers.” She has one hand on the service cart. “I have your lunch?”
She’s in slim black slacks and a button-down, white shirt. Her blonde hair is pulled into a neat ponytail, leaving the smooth, pale skin of her neck exposed. Even in uniform, she’s beautiful and poised.
The slight blush on her lovely cheeks does not escape my notice. I could be wrong, but I think I know what that blush is about. I would play it to my advantage, in any other situation.
This thing about her working here—and now getting ready to serve me—is every kind of wrong. This isn’t how things should be. Not at all.
It has not escaped my notice that I’ve thought more about this woman since seeing her at the art show than all the other women combined over the last year. Yet, I have to keep it under wraps because I’m the boss. It’s irritating.
“Come.” I gesture slightly with my left hand.
As she wheels the cart toward the credenza to my left, the situation annoys me more and more. She’s an employee. Bringing my damned lunch. I don’t want her to serve me and leave. I want to talk to her.
She brings the cart to a stop.
“What’s your name?”
She startles slightly. “Oh right. Sorry.”
I’ve no doubt made her realize she forgot introduce herself, something Alice instructs new employees to do the first time they serve one of us. Alice is unnecessarily particular about the whole thing.
“Emma.”
Emma. Something squeezes inside my chest.
“Emma what?”
She hesitates. For the briefest moment, she looks as she did in the garage. Like she’s as interested in me as I am in her. She tucks it away under a professional mask and raises her chin slightly. “Emma Swanson. Would you like your food here or on your desk, Mr. Rivers?”
She’s strong-willed. I like that. And I’d bet not the kind of woman to throw herself at her boss.
Clearly, God is getting even with me for my sins.
“Bring it here.” I gather some papers and set them to the side. As she wheels the cart over, she seems unable to stop herself from casting one quick glance after another in my direction. The color on her cheeks is deepening, but she clearly has her guard up. Like she thinks I might make a move on her no matter who I am or how many times she calls me “Mr. Rivers” in an attempt to keep things in line.
It’s my own fault. I didn’t hide my reaction very well when I saw her in the parking garage. It didn’t occur to me to try. I was too astonished to see her. I didn’t realize she was in that uniform until after she rode away with the beefcake who probably has more tattoos than she does.
I glance at her shoulders, wondering how many tattoos she does have, underneath those clothes. She comes around to my left side, bends over the desk slightly, and places the tray on top.
An unwelcome mental image brings my past back to me: me hastily bending an eager employee over my desk, late at night when the office was empty. That’s how the sex was, too. Empty, and only a temporary relief from my demons.
She was standing right where Emma is now. Not that my draw to her is anything like the others. I don’t want to take her like that. I want something different. But does it matter? Thinking of my past mistakes reminds me of the promise I made to my brother. Not to mention that damned, threatening email.
I look toward the broad windows and the lush resort grounds beyond, briefly pinching my eyes shut as my vow to Connor swirls around in my consciousness with Emma’s scent: mild floral notes with a hint of citrus.
“May I, Mr. Rivers?”
I open my eyes. Her hand is out, palm up. I want to put my hand on hers, lace our fingers together, and pull her onto my lap.
Fuck.
I don’t even know her. What is she doing to me?
In Emma’s other hand is the carafe of ice water. “Your glass?” she prompts, her raised hand gesturing to my empty glass, which is on the other side of my desk, beyond her reach.
I hand her the glass. She seems careful to make sure our fingertips don’t touch. I lean back as she pours.
I’m trying to remind myself that she’s an employee, that I’ve made promises that matter, that I can’t go back to my past, but there’s a larger part of me taking over. I can’t seem to stop myself. She doesn’t feel like an employee as much as she feels like the intriguing woman across the room.
I allow myself to examine her face, visually tracing the curve of her cheek, the line of her nose, the soft swelling of her lips. Her eyes flit to mine. I examine her eyes: sky-blue rimmed in dark cobalt.
She hastily drops her gaze, finishing with the water. I know I’m crossing lines. But what if I don’t want to care about that?
“I’ve seen you before,” I say.
Avoiding my eyes, she sets my glass on the desk, then puts the rolled silverware below it with slightly fumbling fingers. “Well, I work here.”
“Not that.”
Her hand, reaching for the little dish of nuts, pauses in midair and her eyes return to mine. This time, they linger.
“I saw you at the art show.”
“You did?” She drops her hand, straightening, her eyes still on mine.
I nod and smile slightly. Her eyes dip to my mouth momentarily.
“Were you in the market for a new painting?” I ask.
“Hardly. My roommate was one of the artists there.”
“Ah.” For some reason this makes sense to me. “Which one? Maybe I know her.”
The corner of her mouth hitches up, an almost-smile. I find myself badly wanting to see the rest of it. “He. Pierce Lindholm.” The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know him. One of the new artists, perhaps. But that’s not the most important consideration right now.
“Your roommate is a man?”
“Yes.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
A little voice reminds me that I have no business asking my employees their relationship status.
But this isn’t boss to employee. It’s me to her. And I need to know.
She’s hovering in place, still looking at me, trying to put her guard back up, but failing. As we look at one another, not speaking, there’s a passing acknowledgment between us about what’s really happening here.
“I’m not exactly his type.”
“Then he’s an idiot.”
“He’s gay.”
“That’s no excuse. Was he the one on the motorcycle?” Because if he wasn’t, and that was her boyfriend...
“Yes. And I don’t think you’re supposed to be asking questions like this.”
She breaks eye contact at last and I lean back. She picks up the little bowl of nuts intending to place it on my desk, in the same damned spot they always place it. I gently take her by the wrist, stopping her.
Her blush deepens and she holds her breath. The vein at the base of her neck pulses rhythmically.
Touching her had an unexpected effect on me as well. My blood starts to run hot. I take it back. I do want to bend her over my desk.
I remove the bowl from her hand and release her. “It’s not necessary to serve me like that.”
“Alice says—”
“I trump whatever Alice says.”
Our gaze holds another heartbeat before she
stubbornly removes the plate from the tray and places it on my desk. Fuck, she needs to stop serving me.
“Leave the items on the cart.”
“I’ve been instructed to bring the cart back, Mr. Rivers.”
“Call me Rayce.”
I’m crossing line after line, but I don’t want her to be so formal. Not in this context anyway. My dick twitches at the thought of her calling me Mr. Rivers in a darkened room with her clothes off, but right now I just want to hear my first name on her lips.
She removes the dome from the plate, the steam rising from the fajita strips and the scent of sautéed onions and peppers accenting the air. She places the dome on the cart.
“I need to follow her instructions.” She looks at me pointedly. “I need this job.”
I exhale and drop the little bowl on my desk with a thunk. She needs this job. She needs to not put it at risk by crossing lines with me. I should want the same damned thing. But I don’t.
She starts wheeling the cart away.
A hard knot grips my chest. She’s going to walk out of here, and who knows if I’ll see her again unless I purposely go hunting her down. Which, I realize, I’m no longer above doing.
“Wait.”
She stops with one hand on the cart and looks at me. “Do you need anything else, Mr. Rivers?”
Do I need anything? Good lord. I need her not to vanish again. I need this to not be the last I see of her today.
“I’d like a piece of that new lime cheesecake from Sweetbrew.”
“All right.”
The knot in my chest loosens. This gives me a minute to figure out where to go from here. “Then I’ll see you when you get back.”
She straightens, dropping her hand from the handle of the cart. She looks at me openly. She knows what I’m doing.
I don’t care.
“Alice may send somebody else.”
I lean forward slightly, resting my forearms on the desk and lacing my fingers together. I give her a look that shows I mean business. She’s coming back and that’s the end of it.
Now that I’ve given her this look, she’s struggling to maintain her façade. And not because she wants to resist me, but because she doesn’t. I know enough to know when a woman wants me, no matter how hard she’s trying to hide it. The vein at the base of her throat is pulsing rapidly. I want to run my fingertips over it.
