One drink.
Two.
Three.
Not drunk. Hell, not even close.
Apparently, a fun side effect of partying for the last four years meant it was going to take a hell of a lot more whiskey to make him numb.
“Drinking to remember, or drinking to forget?” George wiped the sparkling bar top then filled a tall glass with club soda and a lime.
With a nod, Brant shoved his half-full drink toward George, trading it for the club soda that for some ungodly reason sounded better.
It tasted better, too.
Damn it.
What was with this resort?
“Forget.” Brant cleared his throat. “Who drinks to remember?”
“Old folks.” George grinned. His wrinkled face looked so much younger when he smiled. “Folks like me who drink bourbon to remember the good old days, or toss back a nice rosé to remember the wives.”
Brant sputtered out his drink. “Plural?”
“Four.”
“You dog.” He couldn’t keep his smile in. “Are you going to expand on that particular memory or just let me assume?”
George winked. “You enjoy that club soda. Let me know if you need another whiskey.”
“No.” Brant stood. “There are some things…even whiskey doesn’t fix.”
“Blasphemy.” George made a cross over his chest and chuckled. “Sleep well, Brant.”
“Keep remembering, George.” He tipped his drink toward the bartender and turned around.
As he walked off, he could have sworn he heard George whisper, “You can’t forget forever.”
The words hung in the air.
Haunting him.
Following him all the way into his room and into his bed. When he closed his eyes to sleep, the words hovered beneath consciousness as he struggled to remember all the reasons he’d been trying to forget about the best years of his life in the first place.
Sometimes it was just easier, not acknowledging the pain. It didn’t make it go away. But it did lessen the blow.
He fell asleep to the vision of dark hair, Nike shoes, and a masseuse with hands of gold.
It was the first time he’d dreamed of a woman who wasn’t Nikki, and when he opened his eyes the next morning, guilt followed him around just as George’s words had the night before.
His itinerary had him visiting the five-diamond spa again for another massage and a tour. What if he ran into her? What if he just randomly asked for the name of every employee who had dark hair and then followed them home?
Yeah, Brant, good one. The lady touched your ass, then you wrote her up for having dust in her room, and now you’re going to stalk her.
With a curse, he walked toward the spa and stopped when he saw a flash of dark hair.
“Damn it.” He tried following her, but Cole Masters suddenly appeared out of thin air.
Cock blocked. He was literally out to ruin Brant’s life.
“Need something?” Cole asked. Hands folded behind his back, posture perfect, straight, blindingly white teeth, and irritating smirk.
Brant had to remind himself not to strangle the man in an effort to shove him to the side so he could stalk—follow—the woman he assumed had massaged him.
He’d seen a flash of Nike. She was wearing all black. And dark hair had peeked out from underneath a giant hat that looked ridiculous perched on her head.
“Hats,” Brant blurted. “Isn’t that against company policy? I vaguely remember a strict black-and-white dress code; I would hate to write up someone, especially if that particular someone has already been warned.”
Cole flinched. “Yes, well, when an employee is allergic to the sun they’re allowed to wear hats.”
Brant crossed his arms. “Inside?”
“It’s an open resort.” Cole wasn’t backing down. “Sun at times does filter in through the…air.”
“The air,” Brant repeated. “I can’t decide if you’re an idiot or a jackass.”
Cole’s smile fell.
“Or maybe a bit of both?”
Cole flexed his fingers into fists.
Brant was having the time of his life. “So.” He rubbed his hands together. “How about that tour?”
Cole opened then shut his mouth. “You don’t make it easy to like you.”
Brant frowned. “What the hell makes you think I give a shit if you like me? I’m your boss—you don’t have to like me.”
Cole gritted his teeth. “Well, boss, maybe people would react better if you didn’t have a stick up your ass….sir.”
Well, at least now they were getting somewhere. Cole had been reserved up until then, keeping his thoughts to himself, though his expressions always gave him away.
Brant stopped walking. “I’ve given you no reason to hate me, I’ve just been doing my job. No reason to disrespect me. This can be painless. You just need to pull your head out of your ass long enough to realize this is going to be best for the employees—best for you, in the long run. But I can’t do my job when you linger around every damn corner. Let me do my job. And I’ll let you do yours. And if I for one second don’t think you’re the fucking best at what you do, I’ll fire your sorry ass, understood?”
Cole muttered a curse. “Fine.”
“Wow, don’t piss your pants.” Brant shoved his hands into his pockets. “Now you can show me the spa.”
Cole was quiet as they walked down the luxurious hallway. A stream ran down the side of the building over rocks and different pieces of metal sculptures.
They stopped in front of a wooden door. Cole opened it, and steam billowed out around Brant’s feet. He took a step in. The air was thick.
“You’ve been to the massage area,” Cole said in a seminormal voice. “This is what we call the Zen room.”
Brant did a small circle. “It’s too quiet.”
Cole rolled his eyes. “Zen. It’s a Zen room.”
A guest walked in, unwrapped her bathrobe, and lay down on one of the lounge chairs. Two staff members immediately brought her tea and hot towels for her face. Her white bathing suit had the hotel’s emblem stitched in gold around the center.
“Huh.” Brant nodded. “You couldn’t pay me to sit that still, in the quiet, with all the tea.”
Cole shrugged. “Some people actually enjoy relaxing. And this is the best place to do it.” He pointed to a far wall. “Through that wooden door is the sauna, a steam room, a plunge pool, and a hot tub. It’s all private, for the guests only, of course, but any guest can use this area if they are paying for spa services.”
The rest of the tour went better. If “better” included Brant and Cole not killing each other.
“All right.” Cole rubbed his hands together. “I think that’s it. I’ll see you later tonight at the masquerade cocktail reception. A mask will be brought to your room, and I believe that your tux has already been delivered.”
“Thanks.” Brant held out his hand.
Cole stared at it. Angry again.
“Seriously?” Brant exhaled.
Cole shook Brant’s hand. Hard. So hard that Brant was surprised his fingers didn’t make a popping noise.
“Where are we on that massage?” Brant asked.
They were standing in the spa lobby, with its choking incense and beauty products.
“Everyone’s booked,” Cole snapped.
“Oh! Actually…” said the receptionist, beaming at Brant.
“Annie,” Cole warned.
“What?” She shrugged. “We just had a cancellation for—”
“Great!” Cole yelled, running toward Brant like he was about to dive over a grenade. Was he sweating? “Why don’t I go back and check to see if she’s…” His eyes were darting back and forth over the computer monitor that he’d jerked toward him. “Yup, okay she has an opening in fifteen minutes, how”—he choked—“awesome.”
“Are you gonna make it?” Brant whispered. “Seriously? What’s wrong with you? Do I need to do a drug screening for all employees?”
“Ha.” Cole had a look that said, I wish I were on drugs right now. The hell was his problem? “I’ll just go…help her get the room ready, since you wrote her up last time, I would hate to see her get into trouble because you find a microscopic piece of dirt in a potted plant or something.” He glared at the receptionist, who paled.
When he was gone, Brant turned the monitor back toward Annie and shook his head. “Don’t worry—he can’t fire you.”
“Cole?” She gave a half shrug. “He’s the nicest boss ever. Seriously. He wouldn’t hurt a flea, let alone fire me for doing my job. He’s just”—she swallowed slowly—“protective.”
“Of his employees?”
“Right.” She chirped and flashed a smile. “But, sometimes…men don’t know everything, you know?”
“You get that I’m a man, right?”
“She’s ready for you.” Oh good, Cole was back. Insert sarcasm. “Just remember, she doesn’t speak.”
“How could I forget when you keep reminding me?”
Cole stomped off.
Brant shook his head and made his way to the massage room, slowly at first, only to end up half-running. Something was seriously wrong with him if he was that excited over a damn massage that had nearly killed him the day before.
She’d been so rough he’d nearly died on the table. And then he’d been so turned on he almost preferred the roughness.
He went to room five, stripped, and laid facedown on the bed. A minute or so later, a soft rap at the door broke the silence, and then it opened, closed.
Alone. He was alone with her. The woman who had haunted his dreams the night before.
She could be an eighty-year-old troll with a lazy eye, and he’d have no idea. Hell, she probably had a unibrow. And yet, no matter how many times he tried to convince his body of all those fun possibilities—it still reacted to her scent, her touch.
He inhaled as her hands rubbed together. He tensed, stopped breathing, waiting in anticipation.
Rub, rub, rub. The sound of her hands slicking oil all over each other had to be one of the most erotic sounds he’d ever heard.
Rub, rub, rub.
Okay just how much oil did she need?
Rub, rub.
He was going to die on that table. Die from anticipation. Die from want.
Rub, rub, rub, rub.
Fucking hell!
And then, the barest of touches across his neck, and the sheet slid down. He froze. Her hands slid down the middle of his back, then spread wide before going down his sides.
Bliss.
Heaven.
Hell.
It was torture. The last thing he should do was respond, moan, do anything that showed her how he felt, but not reacting was almost as painful as whatever the hell she was doing with her damn elbows.
The first part always felt good.
The middle hurt like hell.
The end.
Sweet God.
The end.
His eyes strained to make out the size of her shoes, like a freak, as she walked toward the front of his head.
She was short. But those hands—yeah, her nickname should be Mighty Mouse.
A knot twisted beneath her elbow. “Hell,” he breathed.
Feet. Look at her feet. Focus, Brant! Her Nikes couldn’t be any bigger than a size seven, maybe a six and a half? Small feet. Delicate.
His vision blurred as she worked that same knot, and he grabbed the edge of the table and tried to control his breathing. She went up on her tiptoes and shoved him down against the table like one of Satan’s minions.
He hissed out a curse as the knot finally released, only for her to move on to the next one.
What the hell was wrong with having a relaxing massage? Should he say something?
Oh wait, she was mute. Not deaf. He mentally slapped himself. The massage would be a lot better if she could communicate with him—then again, his constant squirming was probably enough of a clue to the pain he was in.
He was dripping with sweat, and she was just massaging his back. Yeah, it was going to be another long hour.