Very specific things.
Like saying the right thing to the right people to ensure that no one in her circles ever hires anyone related to Technique Group ever again.
Essentially blacklist them among her colleagues and friends the way that Xavier had me blacklisted in the industry.
Not that I’ve decided I want to be that kind of asshole.
Yet.
The idea of destroying what my mom built with my grandpa—that hurts.
But it won’t ever be mine again.
So yeah, revenge is in the back of my mind.
As is my memory of her knowing exactly what to do and not hesitating during a medical emergency for a member of the staff at that dinner that first night I noticed her, and then how quickly she leaped into action to help the kid at the coffee shop who’d dropped his tray last weekend.
I spent far more time in the Marines than I did doing private security for the company my mom built that my stepfather now runs, but the time I spent in private security was working for celebrities and CEOs who didn’t jump in with assistance while wearing a cocktail dress.
“If I do something to offend you—somethingelse, I mean, besides accidentally giving you a makeover—please just tell me,” she says. “I can handle it, and I dislike when people don’t communicate. Especially people who live together. Even accidentally and unwantedly.”
I make a noncommittal noise.
“Such a guy,” she mutters.
I shift my gaze her way as she stops the cart and locks the wheels.
It’s honestly astonishing how good she is at this housekeeping thing. Those little details, like locking the cart wheels—I’d expect them to trip her up.
Though I still want more details on her incident with a spray bottle.
“The occupant in this room is a seventy-year-old woman who came here because she wanted to write her first novel, and I’ll break the rules for her to put her towels into her bathroom because the thinner oxygen at this elevation has been giving her a little trouble,” Margot-Margie tells me. “If you could stay right here as a witness that I’m not behaving inappropriately, I’d be grateful.”
“Sure.”
She smiles at me. “Thank you.”
It’s a pity she’s actually a hotel chain heiress that I hear makes sport of making grown men cry in board meetings.
As Margie Johnson, she’s pretty likable.
As a person.
Not as a woman.
I stifle a growl.
Fine.
She’s honestly fucking gorgeous. She came home wearing jeans late last night, and I couldn’t stop staring at her ass.
Then she offered me half of the cinnamon-sugar soft pretzel she picked up at a store downtown.
Said she saved it for me because it was so good that she wanted to share it with someone else who might enjoy it.
Like I’m not leftovers.
Or a problem.
