Hell no.
I CANNOT write: Bikini Girls. Baby Oil. Foam Rave. Accidental Erection. Four-Way Bondage. Narwhal.
Narwhal.
The word sits in my head for a long time.
I am so fired.
At least there was no property damage. Otherwise, Ms. Vexford would’ve shut us down before Orson finished his walk of shame offstage.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to erase the memory.Nope.My brain has other plans, generously playing out the Orson disaster in slow motion: his shorts dropping, the bright blue sea-lion boxers unable to hide his giant erection(the man is packing).Blaze shouting about scepters the whole time while the donation counter spiked.
And underneath it all was a frequency I couldn’t tune out: Cole’s voice in my headset. Smooth. Unnervingly intimate. A low rumble that had no business feeling like a hand dipping into my panties.
My grip tightens on the pen until my knuckles whiten.
That’s the real problem.
Not Blaze’s idiotic ranting. Not Orson’s wardrobe malfunction.
Cole.
I let him slip back in—let that voice wrap around my thoughts, settle into my bones.I was supposed to be watching the feeds. Monitoring the livestream. Directing the cameras. Instead, I was locked in a twisted argument with him about the pool. About the “almost kiss.” About whatever the hell he was building toward before Orson’s dignity was publicly executed.
My mind warns me even as it lingers on him. Even as I yearn to have our bodies back in that pool, pressed together.
What was he trying to say?That’s the problem. I want to know. But what’s worse? I know I shouldn’t.
My pen pierces the page.
Across the room, Cole sits, ankle over his knee, camera in hand. He’s polishing the lens with the focus of a man preoccupied with a job well done. He jams in a new battery with a sharp snap. He hasn’t looked up once.
Which is great. Fine. Ideal, even.
Except.
My eyes rebel, drawn to him like a magnet.He’s ignoring me, right? If he is, it’s making me crazy! And if he isn’t… also crazy. Is he thinking about me? Why do you care, Ivy?
I exhale through my nose and force my attention back to my paperwork.List description of damages sustained.
SQUONCH-KRACK-SQUISH (That’s what I hear, not what I write).
Loud, crunchy chewing noises come from the sofa.
Blaze is apparently awake, one arm dangling, staring blankly at the ceiling as he gnaws on something from the hotel welcome basket.
“Blaze.” I set down my pen. “What is that?”
He holds up the small gold-foil square. “Dude, these mints SLAP.”
“That’s not a mint.”
He squints at the wrapper. “Then why’s it vanilla flavored?”
I lean forward. Gold square. Embossed lettering. The unmistakable Hotel Bellwether logo.
“That,” I say carefully, “is a scented linen tablet.”
