by Eve Kasey
Falling Like Stars
All In Series, Book One
Eve Kasey
Copyright © 2020 by Eve Kasey
All rights reserved.
Cover design and formatting by: Suite Six Studios
Edited by: Jenny Gardner
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book contains explicit sexual content and language that is intended for mature, adult audiences only.
To those brave enough to seek a world outside their own.
Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Eve Kasey
For small creatures such as we, the vastness is only bearable through love.
- Carl Sagan
1
A loud crash woke Elle from a dream about flying.
Even through the fog of sleep she knew the bastard was back.
She shoved off the lightweight blanket and bolted through the veil of netting that surrounded her bed. The saturated sunrise and warm breeze streamed inside the open wall of windows. Not for the first time, she wished she lived someplace normal. Though she did love the stars out in the middle of the ocean. They had been so spectacular last night, she hadn’t wanted to shut them out. Thus, the open windows and her nocturnal intruder.
The tile floor was cool against her feet as she sprinted to her living room. “No, you don’t,” she shouted, giving warning to the intruder.
As she suspected, the monkey was poised next to Melvin’s tank, the aquarium cover on the floor the cause of her rude awakening.
“Shoo,” she said, moving closer. Its damn arm was fully submerged, the monkey’s fingers reaching for her prized peppermint angelfish. It scampered away as she got closer and perched next to the bowl of fruit on her never-used dining table.
“Oh, hell no,” she snapped. Its fingers reached for a grape. “That fruit is to keep you away from Melvin, not a reward for bad behavior. No fruit for you.”
The monkey just blinked, then snatched the grape and leapt out the window wall, ran on two feet across her lanai and over the infinity edge into the jungle, the grape held high above its head like some sort of stolen treasure.
Elle replaced the cover on Melvin’s tank with a sigh. That monkey was insufferable. And the bugs seemed to be getting worse, the heat more stifling, the guests harder to please. After years immersed in this island, she was starting to feel a pull toward the real world again. How tall were her twin brothers now? Was that burrito shop in Mission Gorge still around? And did she have any right to miss home when she lived and worked where the world’s richest people came to escape? At the hotel designated, literally, as the most opulent on the planet?
Yes, she could miss home. She did. A bedroom door sounded nice. So did a date, or even a new friend. Those novelties were not part of life on her island. Lately, her tropical home felt less like paradise.
The next morning, Elle dressed for work like she didn’t live in swampy tropical heat. She chose a black skirt and a pink satin tank, and paired them with black heels. She went light on the makeup. For professionalism and practicality, her chocolate-brown hair was in its perpetual sleek ponytail. William Markham, billionaire hotelier, was a lenient boss in a few respects, but her position was one of only a handful that had contact with his venerated guests. She had to be able to move seamlessly among the elitist of the world’s elite in both appearance and conversation.
She fed Melvin a bit extra after his stressful morning, then loaded her laptop and tablet into her bag and slung it on her shoulder. She grabbed a banana and a handful of granola, both of which she shoved in her mouth on the way down the stone pathway through the giant, lush trees toward the shore. The thick scent of plumeria met her nose and coated her tongue. She hummed a few bars from the song she’d fallen asleep to the night before.
A fleet of speedboats floated in the turquoise bay, lined up to carry staff from their quarters to their posts around the island. She moved down the dock in stilettos with ease. From the years of practice, she could go from the tile floors of her villa to rock to sand to wood without a hitch in her step.
Kauri was waiting for her, as she knew he would be. He feigned busyness or boat trouble when other staff needed a ride, opting to wait for Elle instead. In return, she never breathed a word to anyone about his ongoing fraternization with her assistant. And that was before they’d secured her silence with Melvin, a beautiful and rare tropical fish they’d encountered on a dive on Kauri’s native island, several over in the chain.
“Good morning, Miss Shirley.”
She took a seat on the leather chair next to the captain’s and smiled at their continuing formality. “Good morning, Mr. Tuhoro.”
The boat started with a gurgling roar before Kauri maneuvered away from the creaking dock and into the clear waves. She relished the spray that cooled her warm skin as he sped them toward the resort.
“Did you have a nice night?” he asked, voice raised to compete with the engine.
Elle had fallen asleep with her eyes on the sparkling sky and the country singer’s voice in her ears. Nearly a year ago, she’d broken the resort’s fraternization rules with said singer, Tucker Grant. She had found his sweet smile and sensual voice impossible to resist. Their weekend had been full of midnight serenades and sex under the stars. And since it had only been a weekend, he’d left her wanting more. Like every relationship or one-night stand before him. No one had ever sparked both emotional connection and orgasms for Elle. It was always one or the other. Her dream man would offer both, without an abbreviated time limit.
She didn’t share any of that with Kauri. “That damn monkey was back. Melvin barely escaped with his life.”
Kauri shook his head. “You never should have started putting fruit out for the monkey. I told you that.”
Elle nodded. Too late now. They pulled up to the main dock, where Kauri deposited her and quickly took off. Lingering watercraft were discouraged, even at the back of
the resort where guests rarely wandered, as it could ruin the aesthetic. Appearances were everything here.
She hurried up the stone path overflowing with squishy moss and fragrant flowers that led into the sprawling resort. Building and landscape looked to be completely harmonious, but she knew better. She’d arrived as construction was wrapping up and had seen how hard hundreds of people had worked to achieve the impression of a paradise fully formed. Her job? Assure the guests were having so much fun that they never questioned the resort’s inception—or anything else. As Chief Comfort Officer of the unnamed, uncharted island, Elle’s job was to anticipate desires and circumvent requests, ideate and curate unparalleled experiences that drew people from around the globe and separated them from massive amounts of money.
She loved the work if not the title. Sure, she was part of the C-suite at an exalted resort at the relatively young age of twenty-eight, but Chief Comfort Officer made it sound like she was head of the pillow-fluffing brigade. Making a guest bed wasn’t beneath her, but Elle’s skill set as an experiential planner was unrivaled. This year alone she had implemented a guided hallucinogenic experience with a shaman, so popular it became a permanent offering; hosted a pop-up bespoke tailoring event with Gucci’s newest designer; and recruited the best magician from Vegas to entertain during family week. Every year she got more creative. Every year the resort became more sought after.
None of that stopped the tug in her heart toward San Diego, her home. She missed her family, friends, the possibility of meeting a man she could actually date. She missed driving. And tacos. But how could she leave an island paradise where money was no object in her planning? Where she was paid an insanely high salary she couldn’t spend? That’s why, months after she started yearning for home, she remained on the island.
Yua was waiting outside her office, a jar of still-bubbling nitro cold brew in her hand. She wore the same type of outfit every day, a vestige of her earlier career in her native Tokyo: black pencil skirt, sensible black heels, high-necked white blouse. Her posture was ramrod straight, her hair parted perfectly, the bob brushing against her chin.
Elle took the coffee gratefully as they entered her sunny, air-conditioned office. They took their usual seats at the round table next to the window as Yua pulled up the arrivals schedule on screen. “Guests arriving this week are the crown prince of Saudi Arabia, Mr. Zuckerberg and his wife, Lady Windsor, a member of the Geier family, and the Iranian president.” Yua, efficient as she was, already had the dossiers for each pulled up on her tablet.
Of course, Elle knew most of them already. Her role demanded she know them intimately, even if they didn’t know her. Lady Windsor was new to them, but this was where Elle’s team shined. They’d watch her every move, her chosen activities, what art or plants she stopped to admire, even what foods were left on her plate after meals. They’d track her pleasures and pains and make sure her experience was better every day she was with them.
“Make sure the crown prince and the Iranian president are on separate sides of the island and have no interaction whatsoever or it could get ugly. Zuck isn’t vegetarian anymore, so make sure that gets in his file. Do some research on Lady Windsor. Find anything we can use to tailor her experience.”
“Preliminary research shows she’s a prize-winning gardener.”
Elle grinned. “Perfect. One of the garden suites will be a good start.”
She scanned the list, names and preferences firing in her mind as she skimmed. This was her favorite part of the job: figuring out ways to wow before the guests even arrived. Though unseen by most, it still thrilled her to find ways to surprise and delight.
There were a few new names to learn, including the member of the Geier family—luxury goods billionaires and frequent visitors—she hadn’t met before. She foresaw no issues this week if she could keep the Saudi prince and Iranian president apart; no chance of surprise, their greatest stressor. It was harder to dazzle without advance notice. Then her eyes lit on the last arrival on Friday.
“Tommy Fines? Again?” she hissed.
“I was going to let you finish your coffee before I mentioned that,” Yua said. “Do you need your stress ball?”
Elle felt emotions quickly and deeply. She seemed to lack a floor or ceiling, or even walls, when it came to feelings.
“No,” she ground out.
Hollywood’s favorite actor was Elle’s biggest pain. Not even foreign royalty or heads of state expected—or demanded—the treatment he did.
“His PA called ahead. He’s requested all-new furniture in his room.”
Elle exhaled. That wasn’t too bad. They had many styles of furniture available that were switched out according to guest preference. Shaker, Moroccan, Louis Quinze, island-inspired—name the style and they probably had pieces.
“Redecorating. Easy as pie,” she said.
Yua gave her a sardonic smile. “Nothing on this island is as easy as pie. Not even pie.”
And now Elle was missing pie.
2
Chen moved through the throngs of people crowding the walkways on Linjiang Avenue. The walk was beautiful, a network of bridges and footpaths along and over the Zhujiang River. Even in Guangzhou, where the buildings climbed taller than any of the trees, Chen could still feel connected with the earth. Not lately, though. For the first time, he wasn’t happy to be home.
He had earbuds in, tuned to a British podcast. His mastery of English rivaled French and Mandarin, though not close to his native Cantonese. He’d learned some Russian from his college roommate, but mostly just curse words. Thank goodness for international schooling and podcasts. He’d need the strength in English communication if this meeting went the way he hoped.
Fifteen sweltering minutes later, he stepped onto the plaza of the Ritz Carlton ready to meet with a stranger. Tatum Geier’s email had been vague, only referencing a position that he felt suited Chen perfectly. He’d immediately researched the mystery man online. He came from a family who’d been in the luxury goods business for generations. High-end couture, leather accessories, perfume, or liquor didn’t appeal to Chen in the slightest. One of the other Geier branches did: human spaceflight.
Chen paused to check his reflection in the glass. He’d donned an American polo shirt, khakis, and Italian sneakers. He ran his hand through his dark hair and sighed. The weight he’d felt on his body and mind since returning gained gravity. He shoved his hands in his pockets, suddenly nervous. An opportunity waited for him inside. Not just for him, but for his family. He couldn’t mess it up.
Inside, the lobby was opulence objectified. Marble floors dotted with thick red carpets, an elegant woman playing piano surrounded by delicate cascading waterfalls. He’d underdressed. The restaurant was just as luxurious, though not as crowded. He greeted the hostess in Cantonese. “I’m meeting Mr. Geier.”
“Please follow me,” she replied, leading him past circular booths of bold, striped fabric. They stopped at a table that held a lone gentleman not much older than Chen himself. He put Tatum Geier in his early or mid-thirties. He wore a casual suit, no tie. No socks with his dress shoes. His sunglasses rested on the table next to a thick envelope Chen could barely tear his eyes from. The envelope could be a good sign.
The man stood, nodding at the hostess. He stuck his hand out to Chen. “Lew Chen,” he said. “I’m Tate. Thanks for meeting me.”
“My pleasure,” Chen replied, returning the handshake with a smile, surprised by the man’s formal use of his name. He knew how to do business in Asia, apparently. Last name first; family before self. The Chinese way.
Tate gestured for him to sit. He scooted into the booth, his gaze on the tan French-American businessman who settled back into the booth with ease and confidence. “Can I order you a drink, Mr. Lew?”
“It’s just Chen. And I rarely drink,” he replied. “Blame the day job.”
“You don’t have a day job. Not yet, anyway.” Tate smiled like they were sharing a joke.
Ex
citement jolted through him. Could this really be happening? If it was, he’d play along. “2009 Bordeaux then.”
Tate raised an eyebrow, but he was laughing. “A man who knows what he likes.”
“I did my undergrad in France.” Chen shrugged. “I developed a taste for Bordeaux.”
Tate spoke with a server while Chen tried not to think too hard about how this one drink could change the lives of his family. “Hungry?” Tate asked him.
“I can always eat.”
“Feel free to order for us both.”
Scanning the Michelin-starred menu, Chen ordered them duck, pork belly, and snowflake beef with noodles. Solid and healthy looking, Tate seemed like the kind of man who appreciated a good meal.
After the server left, Tate leaned toward him, his fingers tapping on the envelope. “Okay if I jump right in? I get the feeling you’re as eager as I am.”
Understatement. “Jump away.”
“Stop me if I get anything wrong. You received your undergrad at ENAC in France, then a master’s in aeronautical engineering in Hong Kong. You put in two years with the Chinese Air Force, where you logged thousands of hours of flight time. Then a stint with the space agency.”
