“Oh, I still hate him.”
“Explain.” Jess crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the door. It was the universal body language of you’re going nowhere, bitch, until you tell me what I want to know.
It was days like today I wished I had friends who didn’t give a shit.
“It was a onetime thing. A mistake.”
That seemed to piss Jess off. “You used him? Bailey, you know how he feels about you. No wonder he was so pissy today.”
I wanted to defend myself but revealing the truth, telling them what really happened, somehow felt worse than their censure. “I got attacked last night, Jess. Forgive me, but I wasn’t exactly thinking straight with all that adrenaline coursing through my body. And yes, I was grateful toward Tremaine for being there and stopping Stu. So we had sex. Then he went home. End of story. And FYI he doesn’t care about me. He wanted to screw me. He got what he wanted. Now we’re done.”
“That can’t be the end of the story.” Dahlia sounded horrified. “This is Bailey Hartwell and Vaughn Tremaine. This is epic enemies-to-lovers shit!” She eyed me, a thought flitting through her big blue eyes. “Was he not good?”
My shoes were suddenly very interesting to me. “I don’t remember.”
“He was good,” Dahlia surmised.
“How good?” Emery said.
I jerked my head up, stunned by the curiosity in her question. Her cheeks were bright red again.
Jess grinned. “Yeah, how good?”
I huffed. Like she needed to live vicariously through me when she had Lawson jumping her bones every five seconds. “He was fine.”
“Liar,” Dahlia teased.
“Fine, he was good.”
Jess shared a look with Dahlia. “Liar, liar.”
“Alright, fine, sex with Vaughn was goddamn mind-blowing. Hate sex: who knew?”
Jess opened her mouth but I cut her off. “But it is not to be repeated. And no one outside of this room is ever going to find out. Jessica, that means no telling Coop.”
She pouted but gave me a reluctant nod.
“Now . . . can we go eat dessert and embarrass Cat about her Sporty Spice phase?” I held up the photo albums.
Jessica stepped out of my way to let me open the office door.
“How many times did you uh . . . screw?” Emery asked as we trailed out.
I shot Emery a shocked look, ignoring Jess’s and Dahlia’s stifled snorts. “I am a bad influence on you.”
Em’s face lit up in a pretty smile. “Yeah.”
I let go a bark of laughter, the sound mingling with my friends’ amusement, and I threw an arm around Em’s waist. “I knew I liked you.”
“Yeah. But seriously . . . how many times?”
Meeting my expectant friends’ curious gazes I sighed. “Twice. Alright? Hate sex. Twice. And before you ask both times were fantastic,” I grumbled, ignoring the looks that they exchanged as we walked back to the dining room.
I felt like I might be in trouble because the look in Jessica’s eyes in particular was that of a matchmaker. I knew that look. I’d worn that look the moment I met Jess and thought, She’d be perfect for Cooper.
Oh, holy hell.
THIRTEEN
Vaughn
The problem with The Montgomery was Grant Foster after all. As soon as he arrived at his hotel in New York Vaughn knew something was off. The atmosphere wasn’t right. The staff was nervous and cagey, and not just because they were aware the boss was pissed off with the latest reviews.
There was something else going on. Vaughn could feel it.
His manager was acting strangely. Jittery. Jumpy.
Vaughn had his suspicions, and it took him a few days, but he managed to charm one of the waiters from the restaurant into telling him what was going on.
“Drugs,” Paul said in a hushed voice, his eyes wide at the scandal of it all. “He’s on coke, Mr. Tremaine.”
Suspicions confirmed, Vaughn sighed. “Any idea when and why this started?”
“His wife left him. He started to see a girl who’s into coke. That’s when he started slacking off here.”
“And why didn’t anyone tell me this?”
“Because Foster has been threatening jobs left, right, and center. Total blackmail, too. Anything he thinks he has on us . . . well he’s been using it to keep us quiet.”
That son of a bitch.
Vaughn headed straight to Grant’s office, stormed past his PA, and threw the door open without a warning.
“Mr. Tremaine.” Grant shot up out of his chair. “How can—what are you doing?”
“Checking your drawers. What does it look like?”
“Mr. Tremaine?” he squeaked, panicked.
Vaughn yanked open all the drawers in Grant’s desk, found nothing, and spotted his briefcase. Grant lunged for it, but Vaughn blocked his way, opened it, and turned it upside down.
The small clear packet containing white powder fell out on top of the files.
Fury burned through him as he whipped around to glare at his manager. “You’re fired, Grant.”
Grant’s eyes glistened with pleading. “Vaughn—”
“Don’t. I don’t give a shit how many years you’ve worked for me. I don’t tolerate drugs or alcohol abuse from any of my staff members. This is my fucking hotel, Foster, and you could give a shit that you are this close to flushing everything I worked for down the toilet.”
The truth was Vaughn was angry with himself, too. If he had a tighter handle on things, if he hadn’t run away, he would have known what was going on with Grant.
“Pack up your things, get out, and get some help for Christ’s sake.” He strode toward the door.
“You can’t do this!” Foster yelled. “I’ve worked my ass off for you.”
Vaughn stopped and turned around. “You worked hard for me until you stopped working hard for me. Now get your shit and get out . . . or I’ll throw you out myself.”
Seeing he meant it, Grant lowered his gaze to the desk, his cheeks flushed with humiliation.
On that note, Vaughn stormed out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him. He glared at Grant’s personal assistant. The guy must have known what was going on. Vaughn’s own PA, Ailsa, probably knew more about him than most people did.
“What’s your name?” He was cold, calm on the outside like always, but furious on the inside.
The young man seemed to sense that and blanched. “Ryan. Ryan Upton, sir.”
“You’re fired, too, Ryan. When you took on a position here, you became my employee, not his.” He pointed to Grant’s door. “And I should have been informed of the situation from you, not one of my waiters.”
“But, sir . . . he threatened me. I’ve tried. Really, I have but . . .”
Vaughn squeezed his eyes shut in aggravation. When he opened them Ryan stood up and swiveled his computer screen toward Vaughn.
“I’ve been trying to keep a handle on things, keep things running smoothly. He hired Kacey, the chef, against my advice. There was another chef far more qualified but Kacey is a friend of his girlfriend. I have the list of other chefs we interviewed here, if you’d like to see.” He clicked a document up on the screen. It contained a list of chefs, their qualifications, previous employment, and Ryan’s comments on their suitability. From what Vaughn was reading the young man appeared quite astute.
He looked up at him. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six, sir.”
“How did he threaten you?”
“To fire me. And I can’t lose this job. I have a wife, a daughter.”
This was getting more and more maudlin. “If you’d told me, I could have assured your position here.”
“No offense, sir, but I don’t know you, and I do know you have a longstanding history with Mr. Fo
ster.”
“You didn’t know if I’d believe you,” Vaughn surmised, biting off a curse.
“Exactly. Mr. Foster has stood in my way about a lot of things. The housekeepers have been slacking with no supervision. I’ve tried to enforce some authority but I’m just the PA.”
“Fine. You’re not fired, Ryan.” Vaughn turned his computer back toward him. “I’m staying until I have the hotel under control again and a manager that I trust in place. You are now my PA while I’m here and you’ll be the new manager’s PA as long as I’m happy with your performance.”
Relief flooded Ryan’s expression. “Thank you, sir.”
Vaughn nodded. “Your first job as my PA is to call security to come and remove Grant from his office. I have a feeling he’s not going to leave without a little motivation.”
His new PA gave him a concerned look. “And what if Mr. Foster decides to blab about why you let him go? The police might get involved. That would be terrible for the hotel.”
“That would be terrible. But it won’t happen. Foster won’t tell anyone because that would mean telling them about his coke habit.”
“Right.”
“Call security, and then once Foster’s out I want his office searched high and low for any drugs. Once it’s clean, call Delia and tell her I want to talk with her in the Carrington Saloon.”
“Delia, sir?”
“My head of housekeeping.”
“She quit six months ago.”
A new anger stirred in his gut. “What?”
Ryan winced. “She got a new position because she didn’t like how things were going here. She asked Mr. Foster to contact you but . . .”
“He didn’t. My God.” Vaughn ran his hand through his hair. He’d hired Delia as a housekeeper ten years ago and she’d made her way quickly to head housekeeper. She was smart, funny, not intimidated by him, and the hardest worker he’d ever met.
No wonder things had gone to hell around here.
“Do you know where she works now?”
“No, but her niece, Lila, still works here. She’ll know. And she’s on shift right now.”
Vaughn’s eyebrows drew together. “You seem to know my staff well, Ryan.”
“I pay attention, sir.”
Thank God someone does.
Renewed irritation bubbled through Vaughn. First he’d let two sisters drive him out of his city, and then he’d let one tempting little redhead keep him away.
Now his hotel was in danger because of it.
Women.
“After you’ve dealt with Foster get Lila down here and get Delia’s details from her. I’ll call Delia and see if I can get her back. We’ll go from there.”
Ryan looked energized, determined, and it calmed Vaughn somewhat to know he apparently had someone on his side. He only hoped the young man proved to be as competent as he appeared.
Dealing with the mess at the hotel was a great thing because he had very little time to think about Bailey. He’d left Hartwell, needing that distance, and he did it knowing Cooper was there to look out for her.
He wasn’t sure he could have left if he hadn’t known there was someone he trusted to watch over her after the violent break-in.
After what he himself had done to her.
Every time he heard her flat voice saying, “I’m going to shower you off of me,” he felt a sharp pain in his chest.
The first few days at the hotel had been manic. He and Ryan had worked together to make sure the staff knew the boss was back in town and if they didn’t start working their asses off, there would be firings. With the promise of a raise and a tighter supervision over the hotel, Vaughn managed to talk Delia into coming back as head housekeeper. He had no qualms firing the new head housekeeper since he wasn’t doing his job.
There were a few more firings as Delia went through her roster of employees and discovered the housekeepers who weren’t keeping up with her strict standards. He let her set up interviews for new staff, while he set up interviews for a new manager and chef.
Once the first few days of upheaval calmed a little, Vaughn found himself in Foster’s old office at the end of the day, with a moment to think.
And he didn’t like it.
Because when he had time to think he only thought of one person.
She made him feel weak.
This obsession with her . . . it made him feel weak.
He resented her a little.
Or a lot.
But he never stopped wanting her, and at night, when he fell into bed exhausted and closed his eyes, he saw her beneath him; he smelled her perfume, felt her soft skin, remembered the way it had felt to move inside her . . . and the longing would make him hard. He’d come by his own hand, climaxing in frustration like a pubescent teen.
Vaughn felt himself stirring at the memory of her gasping his name as he thrust into her for the first time. He clenched his fists, determined to think of anything but Bailey Hartwell.
His phone buzzed and he felt nothing but a deep-seated gratitude for the distraction. He reached over to switch the phone speaker on. “Yes?”
“Sir, a Mr. Oliver Spence is here to see you.” Ryan’s voice crackled over the line.
Not surprised by his friend’s appearance, he glanced at the clock. It was seven p.m.
“Send him in. And Ryan?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go home to your wife and daughter.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He smirked. Ryan was never anything but professional and respectful, to the point he was almost amusing. But only because Vaughn could sense the hunger in the young man. He was ambitious. And he was smart. So smart, that if he’d had more experience and qualifications, Vaughn would have hired him as his new manager.
The office door opened and his old friend, Oliver, strode in like he owned the place. That was how Oliver entered any room. His air of superiority and entitlement groomed by a lifetime of privilege. They had been friends since they were small boys, but they’d grown into two entirely different men. Vaughn, his father’s son, was plagued by the constant desire to strive for achievement and success, to build a name not off his father’s accomplishments, but from his own determination. Oliver hadn’t worked a day in his life, having been granted his eye-wateringly large trust fund at eighteen. He was smart enough to make good investments, however, and not to piss the money away.
In all honesty he wasn’t the kind of man Vaughn respected very much, but he liked him even so. Oliver was charming and he was a loyal friend. He was the only person who had visited him in Hartwell, the only one who seemed to still give a damn now that Vaughn had apparently turned his back on the Manhattan social circle.
Plus, Oliver knew everyone. He was a useful man to be friends with because he made networking with the right people so much easier on Vaughn. In fact if it weren’t for Spence, Vaughn probably wouldn’t have considered buying the hotel on Hart’s Boardwalk. For years the Spences had a mansion in the neighborhood where Vaughn now owned a home. They sold it a number of years ago but Oliver, who had spent a considerable number of summers as a young man in Hartwell, got wind of the sale of the boardwalk hotel and had suggested it might be a lucrative business opportunity for Vaughn. Once Vaughn had arrived in Hartwell to look into the property, that was it. Something about the town had hooked him immediately. It was the exact opposite of his life in Manhattan. It was earthy, it was vibrant yet low-key, and there was something incredibly soothing about the boardwalk atmosphere.
He had Oliver to thank for the birth of Paradise Sands. Mostly, however, he liked his friend because he didn’t make issue of Vaughn’s lack of interest in relationships. Where Vaughn was a serial bachelor, Oliver was a serial monogamist. He’d been engaged at least five times that Vaughn could remember, falling in love easily, and falling out just as easily.
When he was single he was a good wingman to have around.
A good distraction.
“I heard you were back. Rumors are flying about this place.” Oliver grinned at him.
Vaughn gritted his teeth. One thing he didn’t admire about Oliver: his enjoyment of gossip. “Oh?”
“Something about the ship on the brink of sinking until its good captain came to its rescue.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t. Anyway”—he stared around the office with distaste and boredom—“I’ve come to rescue you.”
And at that moment Vaughn was not averse to being rescued. “What did you have in mind?”
His smile was wicked. “I’m dating a ballet dancer. Vaughn . . . Fuck me, what that girl can do in bed. And she has a friend.”
Something tight, ugly, gripped his chest at the thought of screwing a stranger.
Vaughn pushed through the constriction, needing something, anything, to break him from his infatuation. “What color is her hair?”
“The friend?” Oliver frowned. “Blond, I think. Why does it matter?”
“No reason,” he muttered, switching his laptop off and pushing back from the desk. “Just no redheads.”
“Why not?”
Ignoring his friend’s curious, calculating gaze, Vaughn shrugged. “I’ve gone off them.”
Oliver laughed, throwing his arm around his shoulders. “Fine. Wait until you meet Tatiana, Tremaine. Fucking goddess in the sack. I didn’t know you could fuck a woman in that many positions and believe me I’ve done active research over the years . . .”
His friend continued on, regaling him with the benefits of sleeping with a world-class ballerina, but Vaughn was no longer hearing him. He couldn’t over the pounding of the blood rushing in his ears.
His heart was in protest.
How could he touch another woman when he felt like this about Bailey?
You sound like a pussy.
And that was exactly why tonight he was going to lose himself inside a fucking ballerina and forget about a certain princess.
Every Little Thing Page 15
