I might have called him noble, if not for the extreme embarrassment.
“Not yet.”Those two little words dumped ice water on my libido, shifting my hunger to shame. Based on the tent in the front of his pants, his dick wasn’t in charge of decision-making.
Even though I realize his rejection was for the best, I drop my chin toward the floor, wishing a potion existed that could erase the mortifying memory from my brain.
If he wants us to stick to all business, we’ll stick to all business. The smarter choice, for sure. Even if my ovaries protest.
I head for my office to nurse my wounded pride in private and smack right into Lenora.
“Watching the tide roll out, I see! You know, there’s no harm in welcoming a certain guest with special treatment.” She winks, a smirk lifting her pink-glossed lips. “It might help you secure that investment.”
I shake my head, too humiliated to reveal that I already failed to seduce him. Probably because my seduction skills are buried under a six-inch layer of dust. Assuming I possessed any in the first place.
“What’s up? What’s so urgent we just about pulled a ‘Freaky Friday’ there?” If only we had switched bodies. Then the next time I ran into Kellin, I wouldn’t be forced to pretend his proximity doesn’t set off entire fireworks in my belly.
She heaves a dramatic sigh. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, especially when your father is in-house, but one of the boilers blew last night. I already got an estimate. It’ll be about ten grand in materials alone. Labor costs will be an additional expense, and they charged three hundred dollars simply to come out and assess.”
Great. If costs keep stacking up, I’ll never afford to buy my father out. Another ten grand may not seem like a huge expense, but it’s just one more thing for my father to dangle over my head as proof of my failure. More red numbers in the ledger.
I flash her a grateful smile. “Thanks for getting them out here.”
“Want me to schedule the repairs? The earliest available time is next week, but the guy said the system can continue to operate on backup power until then.”
“Yes, go ahead. We can’t exactly go long without it.”
My phone chirps with a text from Dad, who’s demanding my presence in the penthouse.
Lovely. I do so enjoy hosting Father Dearest in our finest suite so that he can treat me like his personal assistant.
I head to the private elevator, a straight shot to the top with no stops in between. Though it’s a direct ascent, the ping at every floor between the lobby and the penthouse reminds me that my father still owns everything I’ve fought to claim as mine.
He handles none of the hotel’s day-to-day needs or event planning—or really anything at all—which is perfect. What I don’t love is how he justoccupiesthe place whenever he wants, transforming my hotel into a revolving door of “extra security.”
As the elevator opens on the penthouse floor, I inflate my chest with slow breaths and remind myself not to get riled up. If I starve him of criticism material, our interaction should go better, plus I’ll stand a chance of minimizing the duration of our meeting.
If he starts on a rant, though, I could wind up trapped here for half a day while he regales me with my entire life history of disappointments.
When I was younger, all I craved was a modicum of his attention. Once I hit my older teen years, I realized remaining off his radar helped me preserve my mental health.
Whatever he wants, I might as well find out and get this over with.
Bracing myself, I unlock the suite with my key card.
Floor-to-ceiling windows comprise the far wall, showcasing a larger-than-life balcony with an uninterrupted view of the pier and the beach. The same expensive Italian tiles from the lobbycomprise the flooring in the main part of this suite, accented by delicate wallpaper and a black leather conversation set.
Recessed lighting in the ceiling provides a welcoming glow. A modern chandelier hangs above the glass dining table near the black-and-white kitchen.
I worked for weeks to ensure this suite’s perfection. No detail missed, no expense spared.
And thanks to my father constantly commandeering the penthouse for his stupid mafia bullshit, most of my effort goes unappreciated. Nolan Doyle, my father’s newest stooge and the man who crossed the Irish Kings in New York City, sits on the recliner, his leg tapping against the floor. This particular “business associate” stands at only five-five, if that, with a scrawny body that a strong wind could snap. His brown hair’s slicked back withau naturelgel, and he smells like he hasn’t showered in a week.
How this guy got in with the Kings on either coast—and isn’t dead yet—is beyond me. But Dad’s decided he’s useful, so here he sits, alive and kicking back in my exquisite three-grand-a-night suite.
That’s three grand we lose every single day my father and his cronies stay here.
Brody’s leaning on the bar near the back of the room, pouring himself a whiskey. In their line of work, ten in the morning isn’t too early to drown an enemy, so I guess it’s not too early to drown your sorrows either.
Connor hovers near the electric fireplace, his brown eyes trained on the back of Doyle’s head. The accountant tosses a nervous glance over his shoulder, as if he can sense my older brother’s predatory glare.
