Page 7 of Mr. Romantic (Mister 2)

She has a nice voice. Too bad I don’t hire managers based on sweet pitch. I descend the stairwell that takes me from business offices to resort and emerge just to the left of the front desk.

We have two people running the desk today. Only about a dozen guests right now, since our soft opening on Monday, but this is our dry run. We’re ironing out wrinkles and preparing the marketing campaign for the grand opening next month.

Miss Rockwell is… well, easy on the eyes.

Don’t fall for it, Romantic. Don’t do it.

I don’t need the internal monologue to warn me of the dangers of an office romance. I had my fill with the last manager.

She quit. And she’s probably going to sue me for sexual harassment.

Fucking women. Can’t trust them.

Nope, I need a man to do this job. Preferably one of the two middle-aged guys currently laboring away in separate offices upstairs, working on an innovative way to improve guest experience and make this place work.

But… Miss Rockwell is pretty. And by pretty, I mean, hell, yeah. I wouldn’t mind some of that action.

Just not at work, Romantic.

Got it.

Miss Rockwell is wearing a cream-colored linen suit that says professional. But it’s cut just above the knee, so it also says sexy. Her silky blouse is light pink, which tells me she’s girly. I like girly. And she’s got her blonde hair up in a tight bun, so I can’t tell how long it is.

Yeah, Miss Rockwell says buttoned-up businesswoman by day and unbutton-me party girl by night. I know her kind.

I walk over, extending my hand. “Miss Ivy Rockwell, I’m Nolan Delaney. Welcome to Hundred Palms Resort. I trust you had a nice flight?”

“Oh, yes!” She laughs. Has she been drinking? I think I smell alcohol. Well, I’ve had a drink or two on a flight. But it’s barely noon.

Hold up. She’s on East Coast time. I guess that makes it afternoon for her. Must’ve been a lunch cocktail.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Delaney.” I hate hearing that word mister. Every time someone calls me Mr. Delaney all I hear is Mr. Romantic. She smiles confidently and shakes my hand with a soft grip.

Normally I hate the soft grip, but only with men. The only thing worse than a soft grip on a man is a firm grip on a woman. Every time I get a firm handshake from a woman I picture those overly muscular female body builders.

Miss Rockwell’s soft grip is so feminine, I almost bring her hand to my lips and kiss it.

Instead I laugh at my ridiculousness.

Her smile falters and she lets go of my hand. “Am I late?”

So… not that confident after all.

“Not really,” I say, checking my watch. “I knew you were coming today.”

“Are the others already here?” she asks, looking around.

“Already working, in fact. Denise,” I call to one of the front desk girls. “Put Miss Rockwell in room twenty-one. And then—”

“Mr. Delaney?” Denise interrupts. “We booked that room. The Gurrods wanted separate rooms.”

“Jesus Christ. Can’t those two get along for one goddamned weekend?” I roll my eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Gurrod are old family friends. I only asked them here for the soft opening because my father said Mr. Gurrod wanted to see the place before he invested money into it.

I don’t need the investors, but it would be nice, for once, to have help. God knows, my father hasn’t helped one bit. Nolan, he said. You have a trust fund. If you don’t want to finish college, then everything you do from here on out is going to be with your own money.

And so it has been. But Mr. Gurrod’s investment would go a long way into making Hundred Palms everything I envisioned when I bought the land five years ago.

“How about—”