Kinley

Today has been a raging dumpster fire and it’s only ten a.m. After I was plastered across the tabloids a few days ago, I set up a Google alert with my name, so I’d at least know what was being said.

For the first couple of days, I was an ugly, gold digging home wrecker out to ruin Marcus Singleton’s relationship with the supermodel Alicia Leath. I don’t follow entertainment shows or blogs, so I had no idea who she was, much less that they were together, not that it matters. I tried to have dinner with Holt, not get him naked.

It didn’t take me long to regret my decision when I showed up to bring him the food we had to leave behind, and saw he’d already summoned two nearly naked women to his room. I could’ve saved my compassion for someone more deserving. He wasn’t lonely. He was horny. And not above cheating on his girlfriend while she’s out of the country.

Fine. Whatever. It’s none of my business. My focus is on running Foxhaven. My plan hasn’t changed. Keep Mr. Singleton happy and try to build the reputation of my resort to bring in more affluent guests.

That was my thought until I woke up to multiple Google alerts this morning.

My stomach dropped the second I read the headline.

My already thin patience dropped to nothing, and I invaded his room, ranted at him like a crazy person, then stormed out. Yeah, that’s really professional. It didn’t help that I’d already been called down to speak to another guest who had been rudely shoved aside by him. A kid, no less.

Now, I’m sitting in my office, counting down the minutes to a staff meeting I know isn’t going to go well. I’ve tried to reassure anyone who has asked that the resort is not being sold, but once rumors like that get going, they spread like a forest fire, and my word isn’t enough to put it out.

I knew having Singleton here would be challenging. His past behavior at other hotels made that clear. But I thought I’d be dealing with property damage, maybe a drunken tirade or two, not have my face and name dragged through the gutter and my employees threatened with a fake sale of the property.

It doesn’t matter. It is what it is now, and I have to figure out what to do. I can hear my father’s voice in my head saying, “You can’t control the behavior of others, only your own.” What I need to do is clear. First, reassure my employees that their jobs are safe and nothing will be changing, then apologize to that asshole for barging into his room. I also have to try to sound sincere. That part will be harder.

The clock hand swings to the ten, and I gather up my paperwork, lock my office door, and head to the multipurpose room.

The door is ajar, and I hear the rumble of voices inside. Pausing for a moment, I listen.

“The newspaper said she was selling! They couldn’t print it if it weren’t true!”

“That same newspaper said they found a Bat Boy living in Southern California.” Harriet’s dry reply makes me smile. “This place is Kinley’s life. She’d never sell.”

More voices chime in.

“Maybe she just didn’t want us to know until it was final. So we wouldn’t quit before they could let us go.”

“You don’t know she wouldn’t sell. Maybe Marcus Singleton made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.”

So much faith in me. Sighing, I walk through the door and plaster on a smile. Silence settles over the room as I walk to the front and put my files on the table. “Good morning. Since I’m sure you all know the main reason I called this meeting, I’ll get right to the point. There is no deal to sell the resort to Singleton or anyone else. It is not available for sale and never will be as long as I’m alive.” I look at the room of eyes all pointed at me. “Any questions?”

“Why was it in the newspaper?”

The chair screeches against the floor when I pull it out, making me wince as I take a seat. “It’s no secret the tabloids ran pictures of me and Mr. Singleton at a restaurant. Of course, they went with the juiciest story they could and made it look we were there together on a date. I asked him to please get the story corrected, and this is what his public relations people fed the papers to get them to stop following me. I didn’t know that was the story they were going with and I never would’ve approved it if I were given a choice.”

I look around the room at faces I’ve known for years, some since childhood. “This place means everything to me. It’s the legacy left to me by my father, and I’m doing my best to see it prosper and grow. I never want you to feel like your jobs aren’t secure here because they absolutely are. I failed to get ahead of this and keep it from causing you such worry and anxiety. I tried to anticipate the challenges we’d face having not just an A-list celeb, but the A-list celeb as a long term guest, and I just didn’t see this coming. I apologize for that, and hopefully, this will be the only glitch in an otherwise smooth spring and summer season.”

The room is quiet, but I see a lot of relieved expressions and smiles. Finally. Brandy, one of the night clerks, speaks up. “I wouldn’t count on that. Zya Day and her family are here for two weeks. They make those swamp guys on TV who wrestle the alligators seem sophisticated.”

The room roars with laughter, dissolving any remaining tension.

“Zya has already called me up to her room twice,” one of the housekeepers complains. “Once because she couldn’t find the TV remote that was under a pillow on the sofa, and once to kill a tiny spider in the bathtub.”

There’s a titter of laughter again, and I shake my head.

“I know it’s not easy. And I promised you all an incentive if we can get through the weeks without incidents. I’m proud to announce that not one staff member bothered Mr. Singleton for an autograph or picture, and I noted many of you going out of your way to make his stay more pleasant.”

“Not as much as you did,” a voice teases from the back of the room.

“Very funny. It was just a dinner so he didn’t have to eat alone on his birthday.”

Harriet chuckles and asks, “Did he show you his birthday suit, though?”

Everyone laughs again, and I shake my head, laughing along with them. “I still have your bonus check here, woman,” I tease. “As I was saying, you all did a wonderful job this week, so I have a bonus check for each of you. Keep up the good work, see that our guests’ needs are met—the regular guests along with the high-profile ones—and you’ll see a bonus check every week.”

They leave much happier than they came, checks in hand, and I breathe a sigh of relief, but I’m dreading my next task. I still have to apologize to Mr. Singleton.

Be professional. Don’t let him rile you up with his charming smile and infuriating personality. My little self-pep talk builds my confidence a bit while I take the elevator back up to Singleton’s room. Instead of busting in again, I knock on the door and wait until he swings it open.

Gah, why does the universe hate me? My goal is to remain professional here and that’s going to be damned hard to do while he’s standing there with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. His damp hair is wild, and a few drops still wet his chest, clinging to the scattering of curly hairs.

“Do you need something, or did you just come for the show?” he asks, running a hand down his chest.

Shit. I’m standing here staring at him like an idiot. Swallowing, I try to remember the little rehearsed speech I composed in my head.

“I-I came up to apologize for my earlier behavior. I shouldn’t have entered your room without your permission and—”

“Threw a newspaper at my head?” He turns and walks over to the couch, where clothes are laid out.

I did do that.

“Uh, yeah. I’m sorry,” I follow him and stop just inside the door. “It was totally unprofessional and—”

He drops his towel. Like I’m not even standing there. All my words dry up, and my traitor eyes drop to his firm, round ass.

“Okay, then. I’ll come back.” It takes me a second to realize the words were spoken from behind me, and I turn to see Harriet standing just outside the door. She fights back a smile, shakes her head and scurries away.

“No!” I finally find my voice. “I mean, this isn’t, we weren’t.” Damn it! Why can’t I talk when I’m flustered? It doesn’t matter. The sound of the elevator doors closing tells me she’s gone.

Holt is unperturbed, amused even, as he pulls on a pair of jeans, then slides his arms into a shirt. “You were saying?”

What was I saying? Oh, professional, right. Taking a deep breath, I continue. “I apologize for my actions earlier.” I can feel myself shift into my customer service voice, or what I’ve always thought of as robot mode. “We just want to assure you that you are a valued guest here and—”

“We?” He grins, buttoning his shirt. “Do you have a mouse in your pocket?”

My lips press together, and I struggle to control my frustration. “We as in we at Foxhaven Retreat, value you as a guest and—”

“Cut the pre-recorded shit, Kinley. It’s fine. Everything is cool. I have to get to work.” He shoves a few bills into an envelope we provide to tip the housekeepers and tosses it on the dresser.

“All right. If you need anything, Clark is on duty to assist you.” Two steps are all I manage before he calls out.

“Kinley.”

My heart thumps in my chest, and I plaster a fake smile on my face as I turn to ask, “Yes, Mr. Singleton?”

His long strides bring us face to face. “It’s been a rough couple of days. How about we start over?” He thrusts his hand out, and his lips tilt up in a boyish grin. “I’m Holt. It’s nice to meet you.”

A giggle spills out of me. A giggle, for crying out loud. My hand slides into his, and I can feel the calluses on his fingertips from playing the guitar. “Kinley. And likewise.” Before I leave, I have to ask. “How do you get the name Holt from Marcus?”

“Middle name,” he murmurs with a shrug. “One of the few things Google hasn’t found out. So, keep a secret, yeah?”

“Sure.” Things have been smoothed over, so I need to get out of here. “Have a good day, Holt.”

“Same to you.”

As soon as the elevator doors close behind me, I breathe a sigh of relief and sag against the wall. Why does talking to that man exhaust me? And why do I enjoy it so damn much when he frustrates the life out of me?

My phone beeps with a notification, reminding me I have a meeting with my accountant in less than an hour. That gives me just enough time to eat before I have to leave. As soon as I step out of the elevator, I’m waved over to the front desk by Tessa, the new clerk I hired last month.

“Mr. Legren says he reserved a suite last week, but I don’t have him down. All our rooms are booked. He’s very adamant he gets a suite, but there are none available.”

“That’s because our suites are always booked three months in advance, sometimes more.” Except for the two Presidential suites that we struggle to fill.

She glances at the frowning man standing against the wall with his arms crossed. “He’s lying?”

My gaze travels down to his suitcase. Beside it sits a very fancy camera. I don’t know much about cameras, but I know you don’t use one like that to take pictures of the kids at the lake. Not to mention, he’s alone, and he’s lying about a reservation. It happens occasionally. Foxhaven is a very popular resort and we’re usually booked up at least a season in advance. We keep a few rooms free in case of an accidental double booking, but that’s not the case here. He’s a reporter trying to get a room, either to photograph Zya Day or Marcus.

“I’ll handle him. Call Herb. He may need to be escorted off the premises.”

Her eyes widen, and she nods, grabbing the phone.

“Mr. Legren,” I greet, approaching him. “What seems to be the issue?”

The smirk on his face makes it clear he thinks he’s talking to some young girl he can bully. He uncrosses his arms because apparently, he needs his hands to talk. They fly around like bats while he rants, “I reserved a suite for this week and your incompetent clerk can’t seem to find my reservation. For a resort that’s considered five star, you really have shitty customer service. I’ve been coming here for years and this is how I’m treated? It’s shameful. I insist on a suite, and a free dinner to compensate for my trouble.”

The fake smile never leaves my face, and I keep my eyes on his throughout his tirade. When he stops, I ask, “May I see your receipt or your confirmation number?”

“Who the hell keeps a booking receipt? Of course I don’t have it!” His raised voice draws a few glances from the guests in the lobby.

“When did you make your reservation?”

He pauses for a moment before replying, “Last Tuesday!”

“And you made this reservation online or over the phone?”

“Over the phone! What does that matter?”

One of the security officers, Herb, steps into sight, and I hold a finger up to let him know I don’t quite need him yet. It’s been a difficult day and it isn’t even noon. I’m getting ready to release a little pent up frustration.

“It matters for a couple of reasons. One, we don’t take reservations over the phone. Two, our suites are booked months in advance. Three, I grew up at Foxhaven, so if you had been coming here for years, I would know you. I don’t know you but let me tell you what I do know. You’re a lying, low life excuse for a human being who invades the privacy of people to make a buck and you’re not welcome at my resort or on my property. Your picture will be posted so security will know not to let you in, and I may just circulate it around to the other hotels in the area. You know, give them a little heads up so they can keep out the scum as well. Now, if you don’t recall where the exit is, my security would be happy to escort you out.”

When I wave to Herb, I notice that Holt has stopped just beside him. He must’ve been on his way through the lobby which means he heard my little tirade. Again, I come off so professional.

“Listen, you little bitch,” the guy begins.

That’s as far as he gets before both Holt and Herb are at my side. Holt steps between me and the disgruntled paparazzo, and Herb grabs his arm and marches him toward the exit. Herb is a big guy, one of those people you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, but he has a teddy bear personality when you aren’t causing trouble.

Holt stares at me for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Have a good day,” I tell him, and head back toward the dining room. I’d at least like a sandwich before I have to put out any more fires.

It’s my fault I’m so busy. When my father was alive, I was the general manager, and I had an assistant manager to take some of the load off. Since his death, I’ve taken over his duties, but continued with my own. I need to hire someone else, and Vera, the assistant manager, would be more than capable of taking the general manager position if I promoted her.

I make a mental note to look through the resumes on file tomorrow while I scarf down a sandwich and chips, then rush out to make my appointment with the accountant on time.

At least the news from the accountant was positive. The resort is doing better than ever, and it would be no financial hardship to hire a new assistant manager, even factoring in the weekly bonuses I’m giving my staff.

It’s a beautiful day and I’m in no hurry to get back to work, so I send a quick text to Foster.

I Scream is a large ice cream shop with an attached playground that opened last year. They have every flavor imaginable and a whole section of self-serve toppings. Stuff you’d never think to put on ice cream. Every time I go, I try some new combination.

The place isn’t crowded, so I take a seat at a table and wait for Foster before getting my food. A man takes a seat at the next table with two kids who look around five years old. He’s really attractive, dark hair and eyes, a lot like the asshole rock star that’s causing me so much trouble.

“That lady is looking at you,” the little boy announces, shoveling a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth with one hand and pointing at me with the other.

Little NARC.

The man’s gaze lands on me, his lips spreading into a smile as he scolds the boy. “Don’t point. It’s rude.”

“So is staring,” the girl points out.

Touché, you little brat.

“Not when it’s a beautiful woman,” the man says, smiling at me.

“Sorry, I was daydreaming,” I lie. “Cute kids. Twins?”

“Yes, my niece and nephew. Excuse them. They take after my sister and haven’t grown a filter yet. I’m Campbell.”

“Kinley. It’s nice to meet you.” My phone beeps with a message from Foster.

“Something wrong?” Campbell asks.

“No, my friend just got held up. No biggie.”

“I’m more than happy to keep you company until they arrive.” His playful tone makes me smile.

The boy jumps to his feet and cries, “Done! Can I go play in the playground?”

The girl joins him, swallowing a mouthful of ice cream. “Me too!”

“Stay where I can see you,” he warns, and they race off. He turns to me and asks, “Are you waiting on a boyfriend?”

“Nope. I’m single.”

I don’t usually volunteer that information, but the guy is flirting with me, he’s cute, and he takes his sister’s kids out for ice cream, which is adorable. I haven’t been out on a date since before my father died. And six months seems like forever.

“I have the same problem. Maybe we could get together and do single people stuff.”

Laughing, I lean my chin on my hand. “I could go for some single people stuff. What do you like to do, you know, as a single person?”

“Hmm, how do you feel about Italian restaurants?”

“What a coincidence!” I exclaim. “I also like to eat.”

He laughs and leans closer, whispering in a conspiratorial voice, “I’ve also been known to play a mean game of mini-golf.”

“You monster. I suppose I could go along with that.”

We sit and chat for a few more minutes, and Foster comes in just as we’re exchanging numbers. “Sorry I’m late. There was an accident. But a hot cop was totally checking me out, so it wasn’t all bad.”

“I’ll see you Friday night,” I promise Campbell, and join Foster.

“Looking forward to it.”

“Did you just pick up a guy at an ice cream shop? You slut,” Foster taunts, as we make our sundaes.

“I didn’t pick him up. Well, maybe I did.” I glance back to see him ushering the two kids out the door. “He was cute, don’t you think?”

“I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for having cold feet,” Foster agrees. “But what about poor Marcus? He’ll be so disappointed!”

That earns him a punch on the shoulder. “You know those rags don’t tell the truth.” We take a seat across from each other. “Apparently, trying to correct them just makes things worse.”

Foster licks the ice cream from his spoon. “I know you hate being the center of attention, but look at it as free publicity for Foxhaven. You were hoping to draw in more affluent guests to fill those empty suites, right?”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “I’m sure they’ll move on to more interesting gossip anyway when I’m not seen out with him again. I just didn’t expect it.”

“Are you pissed at Marcus?”

“I was,” I sigh. “I mean, he can be a total asshole, but I really think he was trying to refute the stories of us being together. It had to be embarrassing for him.”

Foster scowls at me. “Why would you be an embarrassment? You’re beautiful and successful.”

“Not compared to his supermodel girlfriend,” I laugh.

“Ah.” He waves his hand. “Believe it or not, emaciated and high maintenance isn’t always a turn on.” He grins and points his spoon at me. “Just do your thing, girl. Don’t worry about what the media says.”