He’s tall. At least six-two. Maybe six-three.
Broad shoulders fill out a dark, tailored suit that looks more expensive than my Kia. The jacket fits like it was literally sewn onto his body. White dress shirt. Silver cuff links.
A Rolex glints on his wrist.
His dark hair is neatly styled, his square jaw clean-shaven. But what really stands out are his eyes. Even from across the room, I can see they’re an intense, piercing blue.
Sharp.
Observant.
Powerful.
“Mr. Garrison,” Diana calls.
He stops and turns in our direction. Those blue eyes sweeping the room.
Then he walks toward us.
And for some reason, my spine straightens automatically.
“This,” Diana says when he arrives, “is Porter Garrison.”
Of course it is.
The name clicks instantly.
The Garrison family.
The founders of the Belicourt.
Built in 1910 by Fitzgerald Garrison.
Passed down through generations.
Which means this man … owns this place. Or his family does at least.
“Mr. Garrison is the Belicourt’s general manager,” Diana says smoothly. “Porter, this is Harleigh Storm, our new social events and conference planning manager.”
His gaze slides over me.
Slow.
Assessing.
From my boots to the top of my head.
Then his eyes meet mine.
They’re colder up close. More calculating.
He gives a small, practiced smile.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Storm.” His voice is deep and controlled. “I hope you enjoy working at my hotel.”
My hotel.
Something about the way he says it makes it sound like his kingdom.
