Bess
Lane sat all night at the end of the bar. He made small talk with Robbie, ate his dinner, ordered dessert, and occasionally looked up and spotted me. I caught quick glimpses of him, never meeting his eye, but I knew every single time he turned his eyes on me. My cheeks burned, fire licked up my back, and embarrassingly enough, my panties got wet.
I asked Paul to do my bar runs for the evening; he knew my background. After I blamed it on the booze getting to me, he was gracious enough to do that favor for me.
But it wasn’t totally the alcohol. It was mostly the hot-blooded male at the far corner.
Now the end of another holiday had come, and my feet were at war with my heart. My body longed to crawl into bed and go to sleep. Unfortunately, the muscle beating furiously in my chest screamed for more Lane.
I wound my way around the back hall of the hotel to the housekeeping locker room in an effort to avoid any temptation to talk with him by walking through the restaurant. Beating back desire the whole way, I tried desperately to lose myself in the sterile ivory decor, a stark contrast to the opulence of the hotel’s front areas. Christmas carols were still piping through the speakers, and “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” did little to calm my nerves.
Opening my locker, I checked my phone and found I had two voice mails and thirty-two texts. Quickly scrolling through the texts, I realized they were all from AJ. They started out benignly enough, wishing me a merry Christmas and asking about my day, before they sank into a pathetic slump, begging me to text him and hurrying me to finish work.
After packing up my bag, I hitLISTEN TO MESSAGESand held the phone between my ear and neck.
Hi, honey. It’s Dad. Merry Christmas. I was hoping to hear from you, thinking you probably worked a double, but wishing you spent some time with friends. I know I didn’t say it enough when you were growing up, but I love you. Come see me sometime, Bess-baby. Okay, happy holidays. ’Bye.
After the beep came my next message.
Bess! It’s me, AJ. Where the hell are you? I was hoping to at least wish you a merry Christmas in person. I know we left on bad terms the other day—well, I did, and I’m sorry, but I have to see you. It’s Christmas, and I don’t want today to end without seeing you. Come on, Bess, answer the phone or text me back. Shit ... please?
I shoved on my jeans and sweater, slammed my locker shut, deleted my dad’s message, and walked to the door. Completely lost in thought over AJ—picturing him pacing and taking drags on his cigarette while leaving me that message—I was trying to dig deep and find some inner resolve over his current freak-out as I swung the door open.
“Ouch!”
“Shit! Sorry,” I said as I looked up into blue eyes, a little red-rimmed, and shadowed behind dark hair.
“No, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you, Bess,” Lane said, his hands held high in mock surrender.
“What are you doing back here?” I leaned against the locker room door, taking in the fact that even under the harsh bright light of the staff hallway, Lane looked lickable. I knew that underneath his perfectly pressed Italian suit of armor he was toned and fit, based on the times I’d collided with him. Both times I’d practically bounced off his muscles.
And that hair; it was such a contradiction to his proper and business-like appearance. It was wild and always mussed, and I wanted to dig my hands in it and use it to pull him close before melding my lips to his.
Hot damn. I was a hormonal puddle ever since sleeping with AJ. It was like the power was back on and all my sexual fuses were burning brightly.
AJ. The man waiting for me, texting and calling nonstop. The guy who doesn’t want me to be a booty call.
“You okay?” Lane asked, pulling me out of my heated moment.
Was I flushed? I brought my hand up to touch my cheek, and sure enough, it was hot to the touch.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Tired. I worked brunch and dinner today, so I’m just really tired.” I stumbled over my words. Collecting myself, I asked again, “What are you doing back here?”
This was when my world tilted because Lane leaned in with a smirk and a wink and whispered, “Checking on my favorite WildFlower employee, and wishing her a very merry holiday.”
If I were a kite floating through the sky when he leaned close, I was a jumbo jet at thirty thousand feet when he mentioned “favorite employee.”
He brought two fingers up to his lips and said, “Shh. Keep the favorite part on the down low, because I don’t want to offend anyone.”
Afraid to speak, I stayed quiet, but he didn’t.
“Happy holidays, Bess,” he said as he moved closer and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear.
When did this totally inappropriate flirting and touching start?
“Umm, Mr. Wrigley, I’m not sure I’m understanding you exactly. What are you really doing here? In Pennsylvania? Back at the WildFlower after your deal was closed? On Christmas by yourself? And who let you back here?” The pitch of my voice rose a little with each question until I was practically squeaking as I flailed a bit, waving my hand up and down the staff corridor.
But I wasn’t quite finished because then, boldly and out of left field, I asked, “Why me? Why are you back here talking to me?”
