‘Guilty as charged.’
I rummage in my rucksack for sunglasses while Michel retrieves my suitcase before we make our way from the helipad to the lobby of the resort. The sun beats down and I feel my unprotected, exposed skin sizzle. It’s hot; even a quick inhalation scorches my lungs. The weather is going to take some acclimatising for this Brit. I picture myself returning to London, sun kissed and glowing, but right now the thick humidity feels like I’m pulling my body through treacle. It’s been a helluva morning.
What seems like an age later, we finally enter the lobby and I sag in relief as the blissfully sweet cold air hits me. Revived, I take in the area. The lobby is luxe with plush sand-coloured sofas, a giant built-in floor chess board, and potted palms. The warm timber flooring is polished to a shine. The space is light and airy with its white stone walls. A soaring archway makes artwork out of the blue sky beyond. Smiley-faced staff stand behind curved desks and wear formal starched black and white uniforms which would surely be hot in this relentless heat? It’s a five-star resort and must have exacting standards but I can’t help but wonder if staff would be happier wearing a more breathable fabric. It’s almost like I hear Lily admonishing me across the oceans that separate us, reminding me that I don’t have to stick my nose in…
‘Parts of the resort have been renovated, including the lobby which was extended,’ Michel says. ‘In your face a bit, isn’t it? It used to have rustic charm and now it’s just like every other five-star boutique resort.’ His face darkens as if the renovations really bother him. But ‘in your face’ is not the way I’d describe the breathtaking entrance and lobby at all. It screams opulence and luxury with its pared back décor and feature recessed lighting. It’s all clean lines with natural sunlight and pops of greenery to softens the edges. His whole demeanour changes inside the Last Chance Resort; gone is the happy-go-lucky flirty smile, replaced by a stony-faced scowl. What’s that about?
I don’t press him on it with so many staff milling behind the desk. ‘What about the bookshop? Has that been renovated too?’ Am I about to walk into a huge airy space filled with beach reads and travel memoirs, waves lapping in the distance?
‘The façade of the Barefoot Bookshop has had a facelift but I’m not sure about the inside.’ He looks past me as if he’s searching for someone. The porter? An enemy? I shake the travel fatigue away. I’m actively looking for some kind of conspiracy when there’s probably none. Michel’s probably just a guy who prefers how the hotel used to look, and that’s understandable.
‘And the rest of the resort?’ I ask. ‘Has it been renovated too?’
‘The pool area has been totally overhauled. No expense was spared for that, for some reason.’ Why does he say it like it’s a bad thing? Holidaymakers choose resorts based on their amenities, especially the pool.
I’m not much of a swimmer so I let that slide. ‘Why don’t you know about the bookshop? I’m dying to know what it’s like and you have zero clue. Really?’ Is it full of sunlight and hammocks, day beds and chill out zones, shelves stacked with beach reads and summer books? Or is it a rabbit warren of small enclaves full of old and new tomes, mixed in a jumble, old book scent permeating the salty breeze that lashes in off the beach? I’m keen to discover just what kind of bookshop it is.
‘I’m not much of a reader, more of a gym buff.’ Cue the bicep flex.
I gasp. ‘No wonder you’re single.’
He shakes his head and grins. ‘You’re going to be a handful, aren’t you?’
I remember my mission. Don’t stand out. Don’t make waves. Don’t get fired. Cancelled. Dumped. Doxxed. Again. ‘I’m going to do no such thing. I’m simply here to work.’
‘Simply here to work.’ He mimics my curt tone.
‘I hope you don’t behave this way with all guests?’
He tilts his head, smug smile at the ready. ‘You’re not a guest. You’re one of us.’
I’m not sure why I get such a thrill at that comment, but I do. Maybe it’s being included already, being part of a team again.
Excitement pulses through me and all the angst from the last few weeks vanishes. I waggle a brow. ‘I’m going to enjoy this.’ Teasing hot guys, yes sure, but also this second chance. A job that feels more like a holiday.
‘Enjoy your time at Last Chance Resort, Harper.’ Michel leans close and drops his voice. ‘Good luck with Xavier, he can be a little… difficult.’
My heart sinks at the thought of more drama on the horizon. ‘Who’s Xavier?’
Michel darts a glance into the lobby before saying, ‘The owner of the resort and the person responsible for all the big changes around here. He’s just come back to the island after being away for years and is really making his presence felt with staff. Just stay out of his way and you’ll be fine.’
Great. Just what I need. A man with a God complex in charge. ‘Please tell me Gus from the bookshop is as sweet as he appears?’
Michel averts his gaze. ‘Gus?’ he manages.
I narrow my eyes. ‘Gus, who was supposed to be picking me up. The manager of the Barefoot Bookshop. The Gus you said who doesn’t fly helicopters?’ Michel gives me a blank look that I just don’t buy, so I press on. ‘Laughs a lot, knows literature like the back of his hand, asks kooky interview questions. Hires people on a whim.’ Maybe this is some nefarious setup after all and Gus is some kind of middleman who doesn’t even work here! It’s more likely I’m a little fraught what with the excitement of the morning so far.
‘Gus, no idea. The porter though will be along soon, I’m sure.’ Does he really not know who Gus is? It’s not as though Michel would know everyone at the resort. And I’m sure the island is a sea of changing faces, so it’s possible he hasn’t even met Gus, especially if he’s usually tucked away in the bookshop, wherever that is.
‘Got to go, more guests are due at the airport and I’m late. Catch you round, Harper. Unless… you want one more photo? Me flexing my muscles perhaps?’ He lifts an impressive bicep and sends me a cheeky grin.
‘You wish.’
Michel laughs and jogs back the way we came.
14
I’m lost in thought when the porter greets me, concern flashing across his features.
