With a resigned exhale, I nod. “Right. I’m staying at theCruzDesert Oasis Resort.”
My best friend is engaged to Nate Cruz, heir to one of the largest commercial real estate companies in the world. And because they inadvertently met through me, Nate has a tendency to overdo his appreciation.
Case in point? Nate gave me his white Prius last year. Literally gave it to me because my car was stolen. He just handed me the keys, signed over the title, and that was it.
Him hooking me up with a room in his family’s resort is nothing. To him.
The lobby has been quiet throughout our exchange—our meetings don’t start until tomorrow, and I took an early flight out to get my head in the game—but I hear footfalls behind me. The clerk hands me back my IDagain, and I slide it into a slot at the back of my phone case.
“Ms. Fischer, we’ll have someone take your bags up to your suite.”
“Oh, there’s no need. It’s just a suitcase and a laptop bag.”
“We insist,” the woman says with a no-nonsense smile. I would think her smile should have alittlenonsense, considering she’s wearing light-up Christmas tree earrings. But no. She slides a gold and black keycard across the marble counter.
Smaller than a breadbox, I think.Jules, you sneaky little liar.
“Your private elevator is at the end of this hall,” the clerk continues. “The keycard will grant you access, and it can also be used for any and all incidentals during your stay here, including spa treatments.”
“I won’t need a spa treatment. I’m only here for the meetings,” I say.
Her smile is getting more long-suffering by the minute. “There’s also a gift waiting for you in your suite.”
“Another gift? I don’t?—”
“There’s no shame in having friends in high places,” the clerk says.
I lean closer to her and whisper, “It’s not even like he’smyfriend,” I say, although that’s not entirely true. Nate is awesome. “He’s marrying my best friend.”
“Congratulations to them.” Her polite grin has to be hurting her face at this point, right? “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
I don’t know why this bothers me, other than I’ve done nothing to deserve the Owner’s Suite at the fanciest resort inScottsdale, Arizona. I don’t need this. I didn’t earn this. I just know a guy.
I sigh. “Yes, do you know if my itineraries for the teams are available yet?”
“Yours is already in your room.”
Of course it is.
A bellhop comes and ushers me to the side of the front desk. He makes a point of taking my things and pointing me in the direction of the private elevator.
“Hold on, please,” I say when we’ve taken a few steps across the beautiful natural stone flooring. I stop next to one of a dozen Christmas trees decorating the lobby. I don’t keep cash on me, and I’ll need to give him a tip. “I’m sorry, is there an ATM around? Or I can send you money through a cash app of some kind?”
He smiles. “Mr. Cruz already took care of the tips.”
I grumble. Juliet may like that she’s marrying a billionaire, but I’m glad I’m not. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against money. But I really dislike people doing things for me that I can do for myself.
While I’m in my bag, I spot my Cherry Chapstick. I’ve only been in Arizona for an hour, but the dryness is getting to me. I put it on my lips and notice the person who was standing behind me in line at the desk.
He must have shaved on the airplane and removed the temporary tattoo from his face. He looks much better. And much worse. I’ve seen so much of Cooper Kellogg’s flippant face in the year I’ve worked for the Firebirds that I want to vomit. He’s good looking—no question—but he’s so brash! He’s swapped his Christmasy cowboy hat for a gray baseball cap. I bet his thick, wavy brown hair sticks out of it when he wears it backwards in a way that drives women crazy.
It drives me crazy, too, but for an entirely different reason.
What is he doing here? This is supposed to be a front office staff retreat for our team and each of its affiliates. Is there a promotional event happening at the same time? Maybe he’s signing his tenth endorsement of the season.
I glare thinking of our exchange in the airport. He must be laughing about how he got the best of me with his dumb stunt. He had a beard and hat and wore a fake tattoo he could have stolen from a preschool Christmas party. How was I supposed to know who he was?
“Ma’am?” the bellhop asks, drawing Cooper’s attention.
