by Natalie Rios
I don’t think I wanted to know that about him. Because now I feel sorry for the guy. The last time he’d seen his father had been during an argument, spouting hateful words at each other. I hadn’t even said anything too bad, but if our phone call is the last time Jackson and I ever speak to each other…I’d be feeling like shit until I took my last breath.
Ugly words should never serve as substitute for a goodbye.
“So he came back,” I mutter, playing around with my fries. I have no idea why I ordered this. I don’t eat fried foods. But I guess the new and improved Charlotte doesn’t have much of a choice. A basket of fries is the only thing on the menu that cost under $5.
“He came back and it turns out Dad left the resort to him. That’s why Tanner’s so pissy. He thought he should have been the one to inherit since Brody abandoned the place all those years ago.” Ah. I knew there was tension between those two.
“You and Kyle have no interest in running things?”
“Me?” Fallon snorts. “Nope! I studied sports and recreation management in college, but I like being outdoors too much to chain myself to a desk like poor Brody. To be honest, I think Tanner’s the same way. It just bothers him to be passed over for the prodigal son.”
I get it. Fallon’s small, a combination of short and slim that makes her look like a dwarf in comparison to her brothers. Fit and with the endurance of a professional athlete, I know she spends most of her days leading hikes and bike rides through Acadia National Park. I’ve never seen her wear anything besides a t-shirt and hiking pants. The very idea of her sitting behind a desk seems laughable.
Tasking her with event planning also seems like a questionable decision. She doesn’t strike me as the party and decorations type. “Tell me more about this party.”
“Basically, it’s an end of summer party. Kind of like at summer camp when they’d have one last hurrah before everyone went home.”
“I wouldn’t know. Never been to summer camp.”
“Trust me, it’s a thing. And since we have some guests who stay the entire summer season, we thought it would be a nice touch. We even offer childcare services for those who have children. It’s one of our key annual events.”
“Do you guys have a theme yet?”
“Theme?”
“Yeah, a theme. You know, like Harry Potter, the 80s, a luau.”
“Oh, for like costumes and stuff? No, we’ve never done anything like that. Last year, we just decorated the dining hall and people showed up wearing whatever.”
A party without a theme. I would love to know what those decorations looked like.
“Well, you should consider having a theme. The theme sets the mood. Food, decorations, and music will be a breeze once we’ve settled on a theme. Plus, it gives people an excuse to dress up.”
“But what if they don’t have a costume?”
“We won’t force them to dress up, just strongly encourage it. Advertise it on the website for next year so people booking ahead of time will know. And anyone who wants a costume last-minute can buy one locally. The extra business is bound to get us in good with the shops in town. Everyone wins. What?” I ask when I notice Fallon’s grin.
“For a minute there, you sounded just like Brody. He’s always trying to come up with ways to tie in local businesses. Says it’s important to maintain community ties.”
“Well, he’s not wrong,” I grumble. “I hate agreeing with him on principle, but it’s always better to make friends with your neighbors.”
“Looks like you two have more in common than you think.” Her eyes have this weird twinkle in them and I know I need to change the topic.
“What do you think about having a theme?”
“I’m willing to give it a go, but I can’t see Brody agreeing to any of the ones you suggested.”
“He has something against Harry Potter?”
“Not Harry Potter specifically, no. But he won’t want to use it. He’ll say that’s a theme for a kid’s party.”
“What the fuck ever. I mean, there are adult Quidditch leagues! Harry Potter has mass appeal. Do we have to run the theme by him?”
Fallon nods. “Ultimately, he’s in charge. He sets the budget and we meet periodically to go over all the expenditures.”
Ugh. I should have known the control freak would stick his nose in everything. But I’ve already decided to help with this party. Even dealing with Satan isn’t going to deter me.
Glancing down at our plates, I note we’re both about done with lunch. “Let’s go ask him about the themes. There’s bound to be at least one he’ll agree to.”
Chapter Eight
We pay for our meals and head back to the office. Satan’s door is open so I don’t bother knocking.
“I’m going to help Fallon plan the end of summer party,” I announce.
He doesn’t even look up from his computer. “So I gathered from the conference call earlier.” Conference call? Shit, he knew we were on speakerphone?
Shouldering on, I explain my reasoning for including a theme and offer a few suggestions, including the ones I listed for Fallon earlier. Though his computer monitor blocks his face, he makes a noise of disapproval.
“I don’t speak caveman. Grunts and weird breathing noises mean nothing to me. Use your words, Mr. Connors.” That at least gets him to lean back in his chair. Hello there, gorgeous.
Staring at his face is like staring at Medusa, except instead of turning to stone, you will drop your panties.
“I hate all of them.”
“Told you,” Fallon whispers from beside me.
“What’s wrong with them? Give me one good reason why you don’t think they’re any good,” I challenge, confident he can’t name any. Satan is just being difficult, per usual.
Mr. Connors gets up and walks around the desk so he’s standing next to me. Whoa. Talk about crowding someone. Tall and broad-shouldered, he makes me feel dainty standing next to him. Surprisingly, I kind of like it. His large presence isn’t scary, but comforting. Like I know he can keep me safe. I definitely wouldn’t mind if he moved a bit closer. Say, on top of me.
And his scent. That delicious, spicy scent. All I want to do is lean forward and take a good whiff. Snuggle into the crook of his neck where I’ll be surrounded by his heat. Lick along the skin there to see if he tastes as good as he smells.
I need my hormones to calm the fuck down. It’s one thing to be horny. Understandable even, given the long dry spell I’m experiencing. But fantasizing about my boss? Especially when that boss is Brody Connors? Definitely an occupational hazard, bordering on a death wish.
“Harry Potter?” His brusque tone cuts into my inappropriate thoughts. “What is this, a birthday party for twelve year olds?” Score another point for Fallon with that reaction. “And the 80s idea...overdone, not to mention too appalling to even consider. Can you imagine having to listen to big hair music all night long?”
“Some people happen to like big hair music. And Harry Potter is a movement,” I sniff. “One clearly too complex for you to understand.”
“A boy with magical powers flies around on a broom and uses a wand to fight someone people are too chickenshit to even call by his name. What’s so complicated about that?”
Crossing my arms, I roll my eyes at his atrocious assessment. “That’s an oversimplification of a very complicated story. You’re missing some very important themes, such as the battle of good versus evil and the importance of friends and family. It’s a story about oppression and facing one’s own mortality.”
Bending at the waist, he moves his face so we’re almost eye level. Close enough so his warm breath fans across my face when he speaks. A shiver runs down my spine and holy hell, what are we even talking about right now?
“It’s a child’s fantasy story. The series’ target demographic is teens and preteens. There’s all sorts of dating and school nonsense in those books. This party is supposed to be an escape for adults with families. Chances are, they h
ave already read the books or watched the movies with their kids at home. Why would they want to go on vacation and relive all that?”
Oh, that’s right. He’s ragging on the greatest story of our time.
“It’s a coming of age story we can all relate to,” I argue. “The awkwardness of a first date and kiss, being bullied by the popular kids. People like to reminisce and the fantasy element makes it a little more fun. Who doesn’t love to indulge in fantasies?”
Our eyes lock after that last sentence. I’m enjoying arguing with him far too much. Plus saying the word fantasy aloud reminds me of my fantasy. Of snuggling into his neck. And his face is, like, right there.
Before I can help myself, I lower my gaze to his lips. Linger on that plump bottom lip. Watch as it curves upward. Shit. He caught me.
A clearing of the throat reminds me we aren’t alone in the room. Fallon is watching us with wide eyes and I feel like I’ve been caught doing something naughty. Time to redirect everyone’s attention.
“Fine, no Harry Potter.” Taking a step away from Brody – um, Satan – helps me clear my head. “What about old Hollywood movies? Gone with the Wind, Casablanca, Breakfast at Tiffany’s. That sound good?”
His face pinches, but he doesn’t say anything. That’s better than a no and good enough for me. “Okay! I’m going to start working on getting us some decorations.”
“Your budget is $1000. Total.” I used to spend that much in a day. More than that, actually. And now that’s all I have to plan an entire party for a resort full of guests?
What have I gotten myself into?
“Cheap decorations. No biggie!” Making a swift exit, I loop an arm through Fallon’s and drag her along.
“What in the heck was that?” Fallon asks the second she closes the door to her brother’s office.
Feigning innocence is my only real option. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play dumb!” She jabs my shoulder. “You and Brody have some crazy chemistry together. I swear I saw actual sparks flying around in there.”
The room is growing warmer by the second. “I admit your brother is attractive.” I keep my voice as low as humanly possible. Every woman with a pulse would agree with me on his looks, but I don’t want to him to know his looks are my weakness. “But there’s no chemistry. He’s not my type at all. Too bossy, too overbearing, and he’s a big jerk.”
Except for earlier today when he gave me time to calm down.
Ugh. I would give him credit for that one, but he ruined it with his phone manipulation game.
“But maybe all the tension between you two-” Fallon starts, but I hold up a hand to stop her.
“I don’t want to talk about your brother.” Who is now one of the biggest enigmas in my life. “We need to delegate party duties.”
Chewing on her bottom lip, Fallon looks like she wants to argue some more, but eventually nods. “Okay. But I’ve got a tour in thirty minutes.”
“I’ll be quick.”
Keeping true to my word, our meeting lasts fifteen minutes. We decide I’m in charge of decorations and beverages. Fallon’s going to handle the music and talk to Mina about the café possibly catering.
With such a low budget, I’m going to have to use my connections. First up on my list is Robbie Rockwell, older brother to my best friend Liz. Robbie is an artist who lives in seclusion in a cabin somewhere in Maine. Not sure where, but it’s in Maine so he can be considered local-ish.
I haven’t talked to Robbie in years and I have no idea if the number I have for him is even still valid, but it never hurts to try. And as luck would have it, Robbie promptly replies saying he’s on board. Not only is he going to do it, he’s doing it for free. No money coming out of the budget for decorations means more money to spend on food and drinks.
I don’t hear from Satan for the rest of the day. He ignores me when I knock on his door and I end up sliding my completed labels underneath it before I leave for the day. At least he won’t be able to say I was late in completing my assignment.
The weekend flies by much too soon and before I know it, I’m back at the office Monday morning at 7:00am sharp to start week two.
I bring another scone with me because I’m stubborn and refuse to give up. Chocolate chip this time. Much to my surprise, I don’t see it in the trash when I enter Mr. Connors’ office for our daily meeting.
Jury’s still out on whether he actually ate it though. For all I know, he fed it to the squirrels outside his window while he sang them a song, Princess Aurora style.
If he did eat it, the chocolate and sugar do nothing to improve his mood. He’s as surly as ever, speaking in short and clipped sentences. When he’s done, I re-introduce his suggestion from last week of sharing his calendar on Outlook.
“We could share the calendar, both adding events as necessary. That way, we’ll both be up to date and these morning meetings won’t be necessary,” I explain.
He drums his fingers along the armrest of his computer chair. “Are you saying you don’t enjoy our daily meetings, Miss Kensington?”
No. Yes. I don’t know.
He’s intimidating as hell and I don’t understand why he doesn’t like me. And my body is way too aware of him. His size, his scent...I swear, there’s even a certain warmth wafting off him. Not like the stuff you feel when you hug someone or when you’re huddling together to stay warm. I’m talking about the kind of heat you feel on a hot summer day. High temperature, low humidity with the sun beaming down right on you.
I think I’m going insane.
“No...” I draw out. “I’m only suggesting it as a time-saver.”
“Getting sick of looking at this face?”
I love looking at his face. And the way his shirt stretches tautly across his wide chest. I especially love watching his forearms flex and stretch on those rare days he takes off his sport coat and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. There isn’t a single thing about him I don’t like looking at.
But then, that’s my entire problem. Sitting here, drooling over him every morning while he barks orders at me isn’t doing me any favors in the keeping my job department.
I don’t understand his reaction so far. The calendar thing was originally his idea. And this...whatever this is, isn’t a part of our usual game. The Baiting Game. “Like I said, it’s about saving time. I’m sure you’re a busy man-”
“I am,” he cuts in. “Thank you for just now noticing. And as my assistant, you should be busy, too. As a matter of fact, I need you to join me for my meeting with Jacques today. To take minutes.” His lips quirk on that last word, likely remembering what happened the last time I was supposed to take minutes.
Asshole.
“Sure. Shall we walk together?”
Arching a brow, he doesn’t answer, returning to his work instead. Dismissed again.
I spend the next couple of hours searching through old files. Mr. Connors seems like the type who would want to keep old meeting minutes. I need some sort of template to follow for this afternoon’s meeting.
I hit the jackpot in one of the filing cabinets. Binders filled with meeting minutes organized by date. Pulling out the most recent one, I study it cover to cover, taking notes on formatting. By the time Mr. Connors steps out of his office to walk over to the café, I feel confident I can do this.
Jacques is already seated and waiting for us at one of the tables when we arrive. The meeting had been rescheduled for midmorning, an off-peak time for the café. With the breakfast crowd long gone and it being a tad early for lunch, we practically have the place to ourselves.
I wave at Mina, who’s restocking pastries at the counter display. Greetings are exchanged, with Jacques sending me a curious look. After the blowup he witnessed last week, he’s probably wondering why Mr. Connors hasn’t fired me yet.
“Jacques, I’ve requested we meet to discuss some concerns that have recently been brought to my attention,” Satan starts.
“Concerns? What so
rt of concerns?” Jacques’ fake French accent annoys the heck out of me, but Satan continues on unaffected.
“I’ve received several complaints from guests regarding food quality. As you know, customer satisfaction is a high priority here at the resort. Without their hospitality, we wouldn’t be in business.”
I won’t bore you with the details, but needless to say, Jacques is not happy with Satan’s news. He spends quite a bit of time ranting about his education in fine French cuisine and how dare anyone criticize his art! For cooking is an art and the plates are his canvas and blah blah blah. He finally begins to wind down, claiming Americans don’t know what true French cuisine is and that’s why these people are critiquing him. His recipes are authentic, after all.
Unlike his accent. I can’t help but snort at that thought.
“Do you have something to contribute, Miss Kensington?” Satan’s voice startles me. Blinking, I look first at him and then at Jacques. Neither looks pleased. Shit. Had I actually snorted? Like aloud and not just in my head?
“What do you know of French culture and cuisine?” Jacques sneers. “I do not know why you keep this woman around, Brody. She insults you and she insults me. She knows nothing. What is her purpose here?”
My last vestige of control snaps and all my pent up frustration (at Mr. Connors, Jackson, my parents, myself) comes spilling out. Everyone is constantly doubting me, putting me down. And I’m sick of it.
“You know what, I actually do have something to contribute,” I say to Satan. Then I turn to Jacques, launching into rapid-fire French. Mostly, I talk about the small village I lived in while studying abroad, noting all the local shops and artisans I frequented. Every once in a while, I weave in a question. Basic questions, such as where he went to school and how long he’s been cooking. Basic because I’m not sure if my suspicions are correct.
Things are not boding well for Jacques. The fear reads plain as day on his face, with his eyes darting between me and Satan as if unsure who he should address. Smiling, I tilt my head and ask him one final question. “Tu t’en sors?” This is the French equivalent of ‘you doing okay?’ A way to check in on someone when you suspect they’re struggling with something.
