“Okay,” she said, sending him another of her hospitality smiles. “Room number three,” she said, moving to the staircase. “right this way, Mr. Michaels.”
“James,” he repeated, following behind her. Trying not to gawk at her ass as she climbed. “So Miss. Brennan,” he said as they got to the top stair. “how long have you been working here?” There were four rooms he could see from where they stood and god-awful cherry blossom wallpapers covering the walls in between.
“Twelve years,” Emily said automatically, walking to the door with a three on it and putting the key in.
“And how long have you been the acting manager?”
“Four years,” she said, going into the room and switching the light on, despite having sunlight streaming in through the windows. “So here is your room,” she said, slipping into the speech she had given a thousand times before. “You have a view of the town from your front window and the wrap around desk is accessible through the door in the hall. Here is your closet,” she said, opening the door and pulling a string inside to light the small space and reveal wooden hangers, a small ironing board and iron. “And through here is the bathroom,” she walked into the room, switching that light on as well. She just wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. “Cleaning services are at ten every morning unless you cancel them. Breakfast hours are from six to ten every morning. That and all the other dining hours are listed on that pamphlet on the bedside table,” she said, inching closer toward the door.
James watched her, her nervous energy bouncing off of her like waves. Was she just antsy because he was there? Or was she always like that? She hadn't looked at him since she introduced herself. She looked next to him. Over his shoulder. Above his head. But not actually at him.
He tilted his head at her, rambling on and on about his room and the attractions on the property. “So is it because I am so blindingly attractive that you cant even look at me?” he asked and watched her eyes fly to his. There was a smile playing at her lips for a second that she quickly pushed away.
“Don't flatter yourself,” she said, keeping unnerving eye contact. “You're not my type.”
“Awe sweetheart,” he said, smiling wider. Unphased. “I am everyone's type.”
“You dress like a hipster teenager,” she said, lifting her chin. She could play this game.
“You love it,” he countered, winking at her.
Yeah she did. Damn him. “Do you dress like that to piss off your brother? Aren't you a little old for rebellion?”
It did piss off Elliott. She was right about that. But he didn't necessarily do it on purpose. It was just a fun bonus. Who wouldn't like to piss their boss off when you know they couldn't fire you? “You're never too old for rebellion. How old are you?” he asked, making her brows draw together.
“How many sexual partners have you had?” she shot back.
James' smile faltered, his mouth falling slightly open. “What?”
“Well, that seemed about as relevant as asking me my age, don't you think?”
James laughed, a rolling, amused sound she found all too appealing. “You're going to be a lot of fun to work with aren't you?”
“I am going to be nothing but a thorn in your ass,” she said, moving toward the hallway.
“Exactly,” he agreed, grabbing the side of the door as she tried to close it. “I have to warn you,” he said, his tone lowering. Almost suggestive. “I am used to getting my own way.”
“Really?” Emily asked, tilting her head. Ignoring the little shiver of anticipation. Because that was ridiculous. “then you better prepare yourself for a lot of disappointment.”
And with that, she turned and walked away. He heard her footsteps on the stairway, taking them at a run.
James smiled at her retreating form. Well. She was certainly a nice surprise. Maybe his time there wouldn't be the soul-sucking bore he had been dreading for months. Months that he spent on exotic beaches in preparation. Chasing women. Drinking too many fruity drinks. Getting a tan. Granted, he had somehow managed to land a deal while there, but it was mostly for pleasure.
Because nothing about some small town in rural Pennsylvania sounded like it was going to be a fun way to spend a few weeks.
Then there was Emily Brennan and her smart mouth. Who didn't love a woman who wasn't afraid to speak her mind?
It didn't hurt that she was absolutely breathtaking. And Elliott hadn't given him the typical “don't screw any of the women there” lectures he usually got when he was sent out on a new job. An oversight, sure, but one he was going to enjoy exploiting. What was the point of business if you couldn't incorporate a little pleasure in it?
James closed the door and looked around the room, cringing slightly. Was everything in the entire inn floral printed? The walls to his room were a deep blue with nondescript golden flowers. It was jarring and overpowering. The king sized bed had a deep blue comforter and the curtains, well... the curtains were an awful, perfect match to the flowers. He walked into the bathroom, finding inch-wide blue tile on the walls and white tile on the floors. The shower stall was dated but the clawfoot tub was in pristine condition.
There was an assortment of artisanal soaps on the vanity from a local business in town. Which was charming. And smart business. People were really into local, organic goods. The shampoo and conditioner sample sizes in the shower were expensive brands. Which was also smart.
He moved back into the bedroom, wondering what would possess someone to make such good choices in the toiletries and such poor choices in decorating. Maybe it was simply something as simple as money issues. Which would no longer be a problem with EM Corporation footing the bill. The sky would be the limit in upgrades.
He walked toward the window, opening it and looking out on the town. There was a crashing sound in the hallway, followed by Emily's voice, “Damn it damn it damn it,” she said, and he heard her walking closer, then rapping on his door.
Curiously, he walked over and opened it. There she was, rubbing her knee with one of her hands. There was some kind of bottle in the other. “You alright?” he asked, not even trying to mask the humor in his voice.
“Fine,” she snapped. Of course he heard her fall. “Here,” she said, holding out a bottle of scotch to him. “this is for you. I was under direct orders to bring it to you myself,” she said, angry. Freaking Eric O'reilly. She was going to make him pay for that little prank some day.
James took the bottle, finding a note attached and opening it. He smiled, reading it out loud. “If you're going to be dealing with Em on a daily basis, you're going to need every drop of this. - Eric”
“That's Lena's boyfriend,” Emily supplied.
“Yeah, I know,” James said. Of course he knew. He worked with Lena for years before she decided to fall in love with the local mechanic and start a baking business. Of all things. “He's a wise man,” James said, smiling at her.
“He's a moron,” Emily rolled her eyes. “Besides,” she said, crossing her arms. “I got two dozen brownies from Lena for having to deal with you.”
“Trade you a shot for a brownie,” James said, holding up the bottle.
“Not a chance in hell, pretty boy,” she shook her head.
“Pretty, huh? I thought you said I'm not your type.”
She hated him. Right then and there, no matter how attractive he was, or how charming... she hated him. She needed to go downstairs and plow into those brownies until she wasn't thinking about pushing him into that room and tearing his clothes off. Which, she was totally convinced, was a normal reaction to hating someone.
She needed to calm herself down. It was only hour one and she was already losing her cool. If he wasn't so cocky she might have been able to just let it slide. Cocky. Good looking. Fun sense of style. He was exactly her type.
“You're not,” she said, her tone not even convincing to her own ears.
James raised a brow. “Tell you what,” he starte
d. “you go binge eat... six or so of those brownies to try to feel better about your overwhelming attraction to me...” he held up a hand as she opened her mouth to object again. He had her number and she knew it. “and then meet me downstairs for a tour in say... thirty minutes?”
Emily lifted her chin. Orders. He was giving her orders. They were phrased like a question, but they were orders. So it was starting. She slipped a sickeningly sweet hospitality smile on her face. “I would enjoy nothing more than showing you all the exits from the building,” she said and turned to walk away.
“Miss. Brennan.”
Of course he wasn't going to let her have the last word. Or her haughty little exit. She took a deep breath and turned, eyebrow raised.
“Game on,” he said, the side of his lips turned up slightly.
Oh, that bastard.
Three
Emily stormed into the kitchen a moment later, knocking into one of the servers carrying a handful of dirty dishes toward the dishwasher.
“He's that bad, huh?” Meggie, the main cook asked as she stirred something on the stove.
Meggie was a transplant. She showed up in Stars Landing one day with her fancy culinary degree and an ability to deal with Marion's mood swings about the menu. She was incredibly short and just shy of overweight. She had a tendency to put a hand to her belly and call her weight “extra padding” with a sweet sort of fondness. She was pretty with her round face and huge green eyes. Her blonde hair was always pulled ruthlessly into a French braid to adhere to health code guidelines, but the softness of her face made her able to pull the look off.
“I hate him,” Emily said, dramatically, reaching for one of the brownies and stuffing half of it in her mouth.
“Devon was back here and he said you had ga-ga eyes over him,” Meggie said, turning away from the stove, a hand on her hip.
“Oh, please,” Emily said, waving the brownie around. “He's rich, arrogant...”
“Honey, he's a fine piece of man candy. Him being aware of it doesn't make it any less true ,” Maude said, walking into the kitchen, completely ignoring the sign that it was for employees only. “How's that minestrone coming along, Meggie?” she asked, reaching to steal one of Emily's brownies.
“How did you...” Meggie started, then laughed at herself. Never question the town psychic. “It will be ready in twenty,” she said, shaking her head.
“I'm still mad at you,” Emily told Maude, putting the rest of her first brownie in her mouth.
Maude sat down, smiling in a detached kind of way. “Girl, you can't blame a woman for having a little fun.”
“When it's at my expense, I can,” Emily objected, reaching for another brownie.
“Not my fault you can't keep that mouth of yours under control.”
“Is he really that good looking?” Meg asked, wiggling her eyebrows and making Emily snort.
Maude smiled wickedly. “Girl, if I was ten years younger...”
“And he wasn't such an insufferable jerk...” Emily added.
“You're just mad because he's gonna give you a run for your money,” Maude said, patting Emily's hand. “You've always had it a bit too easy with the menfolk around here. They all eat out of the palm of your hand. Which is why you always get bored and kick them to the curb. Now this man...”
“Oh my god,” Emily said, standing up and moving toward the coffee machine. “I am not interested in him.”
Maude laughed to herself, standing. “We'll just see about that, missy.”
“Take that back,” Emily said, watching her move toward the door. “Take that voodoo witchy curse back.”
Maude threw her head back, laughing. “Girl, I ain't playing no hand in this. You're gonna get into a mess with that boy all on your own.”
“You know she's not a witch,” Meg said as Maude left.
“I know,” Emily grumbled, sipping the too hot coffee and burning her tongue. “but whenever she says shit like that, it ends up happening.”
“Oh, I don't know,” Meggie said, her eyes a little dreamy. “would it be so bad to have a little fling with Mr. Boss Man?”
“Okay,” Emily said, reaching for a pile of forks still hot from the dishwasher and putting them away. “you have a fling with him then.”
Meggie smiled, turning back to her soup. “That's not in the cards for me, I'm afraid.”
“Cards?” Emily asked, turning suspiciously. “Did you go to Maude for a love reading? Really, Meggie? I expected better of you.”
Meggie laughed. “Tell me this: in the past five years, when has she been wrong about a love connection in this town?”
Never. She had never been wrong. “Well...”
“Exactly,” Meggie said, waving a spoon at her.
“Well,” Emily said, looking at the clock with a frown. “She's wrong about me and James Michaels. That's for damn sure.” She was five minutes late. On purpose. She wanted to keep him waiting. “I gotta take him on a tour,” she said, scrunching her nose up at the thought. “I'll bring him by so you can see he's really not that good looking.”
She walked out toward reception, hearing Devon and James discussing some sort of obscure art exhibit in the city. In Brooklyn of all places. She raised an eyebrow, trying to picture Mr. Fancypants anywhere but Central Park West.
“So this is reception,” she said, interrupting their discussion. She breezed past him and stood in the doorway of the next room. “And this is the sitting room.” Before he could even cross over to her, she was moving past the staircase.
She said she would give him a tour. She didn't say it had to be a particularly in-depth one.
Just as she was about to swing into the dining room directly behind the stairs, she felt a hand on her arm, stopping her. She took a breath, turning to face him with a raised brow. “What's the matter? Can't keep up?”
His thumb started to rub the skin above her elbow. “How about we start over and you give me the kind of tour you'd give anyone else staying here.”
“That is the tour she'd give anyone else,” Devon said, walking past them.
“Shut up, you,” she said, stretching her leg out and kicking him in the back of the calf. She turned back to James who was looking at her like he had all the time (and patience) in the world. “Fine,” she sighed, pulling her arm out of his grip. She moved back toward the front. “This is the sitting room. Feel free to borrow any of the books you like...”
“Where do you get the books?” James asked, reaching for one of the spines and pulling it out. There was a fair mix of bestsellers, old editions of classics, and no-name authors.
“Stars Books in town,” Emily said, fluffing a pillow on the chaise. “Liam has great taste in literature.”
“And what about this...” he paused, smirking. “can we even really call this 'art'?”
Emily found herself smiling. “Those were here before me.” She walked over to one she had always particularly hated: five women in Victorian dresses just standing around a ballroom.
“Maybe if these were Waterhouse they could stay.”
“Some Boreas or Lady of Shalott, perhaps?”
James smiled. “I was thinking A Mermaid or Echo and Narcissus.”
Emily found herself laughing. “Of course,” she said, rolling her eyes good naturedly. “But maybe that would be too much nudity for a sitting room.”
James winked at her, running a hand over the back of a captain's chair. “You could be right. So where to next?”
“Dining room,” Emily said, moving back into the hall.
It was a large room, cluttered with over a dozen tables of varying shapes and sizes. “The inn only has six rooms, right?” he asked, deciding that, so far, it was the least offensive room he had come across. Some new paint, new flooring, matching tables and it would be just fine.
“A lot of the townspeople eat here too. We don't exactly have a lot of choices.”
“Kitchen is through he
re?” James asked, pushing into the swinging door without waiting for an answer.
“Well, hello there,” Meggie said, raising an eyebrow at Emily that was full of meaning. Liar.
“You cant be the chef,” James said, giving her an absolutely soul-crushing smile. “You're too gorgeous to be locked back here all day.”
Meg broke into a fit of giggles, slapping his arm. Falling for it hook, line, and sinker. Emily couldn't blame her. She herself was feeling a little weak in the knees and he wasn't even looking at her.
“Is that soup?” he asked, walking up behind Meggie and looking over her shoulder. “Can I have some?”
Emily watched as Meggie poured him a bowl and rushed around to warm up some breadsticks to go with it. Emily sighed, walking over to her brownies and picking at them. She had a sudden urge to crawl into bed and watch endless hours of mindless television. She couldn't remember the last time she felt that way. Months? Years? Had she ever wanted to take to her bed in nineteen-fifties dramatics? For the first time in... ever... she felt completely drained. No extra energy hanging around. No antsy need to get up and do a million small tasks.
What the hell was that all about?
She got up and poured herself a cup of coffee, adding a bit of cream and trying to ignore the absurd amount of flirting going on across the room from her. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Hell, she was happy for Meggie. She could use a fun little fling. Even if it was with Mr. Fancypants.
“Miss. Brennan,” James' voice broke through her foggy brain.
“What?” she asked, shaking her head and sipping her coffee. “Hey,” she said, waving a hand at James who was eating one of her brownies. “those are mine.”
“I owe you a shot,” he said, shrugging a shoulder. “So are you gonna show me the grounds?”
“Fine,” Emily grumbled, clinging to her coffee cup like a lifeline.
“Meggie,” he called as Emily led him out of the back door. “it was a pleasure.”
What The Heart Knows Page 2
