Cormac showed up right on time, carrying a six-pack of beer. “An offering.”
“Very kind.” I took out two bottles and placed the rest in the fridge. “There was talk of a virgin sacrifice, but I prefer this kind of offering.”
He chuckled as he slipped his utility knife from his pocket, flipped out the bottle opener, and popped our tops off. It was so smooth and effortless, my hands went clammy and I had to swallow a few times.
“It’s a good thing my grandparents keep our fridge well stocked. I don’t know any virgins. We’d have spent all our time hunting instead of eating.”
I laughed, loving that he was playing along. “That really would have been a shame. I’ve gone to all the trouble to make my mom’s pasta primavera—my dad’s favorite meal of hers.”
He leaned his hip against the counter, his beer hanging loosely between his fingers of one hand, the other tucked in his jeans pocket.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. “Or should I stay out of your way?”
“Stay out of my way and look handsome,” I replied, going back to the stove to stir my pasta. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
When I glanced over my shoulder, he was staring at me, a deep crevice between his eyebrows. Had I messed up already? Calling him handsome had been kind of flirty, but he’d done the thing with the bottle opener and scrambled my mind a little. It was his own fault.
“How was your day?” I asked, trying to get things back on track.
“All right.” He straightened and took a long pull of his beer. “A few fires had to be put out. A guest accused housekeeping of stealing their wedding ring.”
“Oh no. What happened?”
“She forgot she’d put the ring on her necklace so it wouldn’t get damaged while she was rock climbing. It was around her neck the whole time.”
“Did she apologize?”
He huffed. “Of course not. We comped a bottle of champagne to smooth things over.”
“And the housekeeper?”
“She was given a paid day off and a gift certificate to the spa.”
That made me smile. “I had a feeling you were a great boss. Too bad you can’t flick the guest on the forehead.”
He smiled back. “I wish I could. A spray bottle would work too. ‘Bad guest. Bad!’ And they’d stop their entitled behavior.”
“Not before batting your favorite mug off a ledge and watching it fall.”
“If only some of these guests were as cute as naughty cats.” He shook his head. “Fortunately, most people are happy to be on vacation and become more and more relaxed during their stay and easier to handle.”
“And you’re good at it.”
He raised a shoulder. “It seems I am. For the most part, I enjoy it.”
I tilted my bottle toward him. “Here’s hoping I feel the same way about my next job.”
“Do you know what that will be?”
“No, not yet. I have feelers out, but I’m not in a big rush. I figure I’ll really dive into applying and interviewing when I go back to Oregon. I don’t really have the time or inclination to think about it right now.”
My phone’s ringtone cut off his reply. Frowning, I checked the screen, not recognizing the number. Most likely, it was a sales call, but I decided to answer just in case.
“Hello?”
“Zara Vasquez?”
“Yes?”
