Page 29 of Last Resort

“Excuse me,” a soft voice murmurs from behind me when I stop to make note of a few changes that need to be made to the interior of the restaurant.

“Sorry.” I step out of the way and turn to offer a smile in apology to the woman. She falters in her step when her eyes lock with mine. She’s tall with auburn hair and an incredible body, but it’s her slow crawl of a smile and appraising gaze that tells me I could have her with minimal effort.

“Not a problem at all. My table is that way.” She points to her right and gives me another look before walking down the hallway toward her table.

I stare for a beat and wonder if this is the answer to my problem. Finding another woman to help dim the taste of Sutton on my tongue and the imprint she left on my mind.

Fuck to forget. That’s a new concept for me because forgetting is typically easy, but it’s plausible and definitely feasible.

And just as quickly as the idea cements in my mind, it vanishes when I look up and see her sitting there.

Sutton Pierce.

Jesus Christ.

The woman is stunning. There’s no other way to describe her other than absolutely stunning.

I give myself the moment to study her as she talks to the maître d’. Her hair is pulled back into a soft, messy bun at the nape of her neck with loose pieces falling around her face. She has on a muted yellow tank top with silver bands lining one of her wrists. Her smile is soft and her eyes warm as she carries on the conversation.

Who the hell is this woman and why can’t I stop staring at her?

“Callahan. You finally got off the tarmac, I see.” I turn to find Brady, the resort manager, standing beside me with a big smile and an extended hand.

“I did.” I shake his hand, my attention shifting to the man before me. He’s tall and lanky with salt and pepper hair and a genuine smile.

“And luckily the skies cleared up to give us this beautiful sunset for your first evening here with us.”

“Lucky me,” I murmur as we move into the room.

“Gentlemen,” Sutton says. “Great to finally have some time to sit down and discuss with you how we can make this resort not only more inviting, but more importantly, more profitable.”

“Music to my ears,” Brady says.

For the first time Sutton turns to face me. Her smile is wide and her eyes searching. Our gazes hold for the slightest of seconds, and I wonder if she’s figured it out.

“Sutton,” I say with a nod to try and prevent her from looking too closely.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Sharpe.”

“Callahan, please.”

“Yes. Of course.” She motions toward the table for us to sit. “I look forward to the chance to show you exactly what I can do.”

I almost groan at the double entendre, my body knowing the answer to that question already.

This pretending thing is going to be much harder than I anticipated.

And so the meeting begins. First impressions about Ocean’s Edge are the topic of conversation during appetizers. Guest expectations and how we are failing them are what we discuss during the starter salads. Budget projections and staff issues our focus over our entrees.

The conversation is akin to watching paint dry—dull and boring—and I keep having to remind myself that I’m better off if I don’t look at Sutton.

It’s easier on the dull ache thrumming at the base of my balls.

“Clearly there’s a long list of items to cover in the timeframe we’ve been allotted, so how do we do this?” Sutton asks.

We walk back to your room. We find the nearest surface—or floor. And we fuck until we can’t walk.

When I shake the thought, both of them are looking at me. “Oh. Yes. Sorry. I was lost in the details.” I offer a quick smile. “Should we enjoy an after-dinner drink while we discuss the how-tos?” They both look at each other tentatively as, technically, I’m their boss asking if they want to drink while on the job. “I assure you, this isn’t a test. We’re going to be working together a lot over the coming months. It’s just a drink to celebrate, if you will.”