Page 9 of Unlock My Heart

“Are you an emancipated minor?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “As I told the woman I just spoke to, who transferred me to you, and the woman before that, who transferred me to her, no. I’m eighteen.”

“Are you married?” She goes down the list of the same questions.

“No.”

“Member of the armed forces or a veteran?”

My head falls back on a silent sigh. “No.”

“Then until you’re twenty-four or older, you must file your parents’ information on the form,” she gives me the same answer as the previous two women.

“But that leads me back to my original problem: I don’t have my parents’ information. We’re estranged, and there’s no way they would help me.” Not that I’d accept it; I’d walk barefoot over hot coals before I asked them for anything.

“Let me transfer you to my supervisor. One moment.” The sound of easy listening jazz has me wanting to pull out my hair. “Arggg.” I press end.

Scanning my badge, I enter through the employee entrance of Hotel D’Amico. Front desk clerk isn’t my dream job, but I was just grateful to land anything so quickly. Forging my hospitality work history on my application might’ve had something to do with it.

After a trip to the vending machine, I pop the top on a can of cherry cola and take a sip as I make my way to the lobby.

“Good afternoon.” The owner sidles up to me, eyeing my name tag, but I get the feeling it’s more an excuse to ogle my breasts. “Sienna, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. D’Amico.” I smile politely, waiting for his gaze to return to a professional eye level.

“Call me Michele. Mr. D’Amico makes me feel old,” he says with a flirty smile, not bothering to conceal the wedding band on his ring finger.

“Mr. D’Amico, I couldn’t do that.” It isn’t necessarily his age that’s off-putting; he’s a handsome man in his early forties, and God knows I probably have a few daddy issues, but even if this man weren’t married, there’s still something about him that makes me feel uneasy. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t want to be late my first week on the job.”

“Lucky for you, I know the owner,” he jokes.

Before I can figure out a way to extract myself without pissing off the head honcho, his phone notifies. He checks the message, annoyance flickering in his eyes before he schools his features. “If you’ll excuse me, Sienna, duty calls.” With a final parting glance at my chest, he disappears down the hall.

“You’re welcome.” The low timbre of an unknown voice has my skin prickling, and I spin around.

Unwavering icy blue eyes meet mine, and an electric feeling buzzes beneath my skin. It would be the most attractive part of this stranger—those eyes—if only they weren’t bloodshot. Not that the guy isn’t attractive; he looks like he was plucked off the pages of an underwear ad campaign. Likely a few years older than me, he’s dressed casually in a hoodie pulled taut by his broad shoulders and a faded pair of blue jeans.

Underwear model by day, Bourbon Street reveler by night?

“Are you talking to me?” I look around to be sure, but I’m the only other person in the hall.

He smirks, and my heartbeat trips over itself as he saunters over to me. “Yeah, red, I’m talking to you.”

“‘Red?’” Underwear model, public drunkard; I don’t care who this guy is, that cheesy of a line elicits an eye roll from me. “How original. Almost as original as asking a redhead, ‘Do the curtains match the drapes?’”

“Since you brought it up, do they?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Bye.” I brush past him, but he easily catches up to me.

“Alright, so red is cliché,” he agrees, eyeing me with amusement. “Fiammetta, maybe?”

“No clue what that means,” I tell him, despite my mind becoming a bit hazy from the delicious scent of his cologne. Whatever he’s wearing hits just right. Not too overpowering and in your face.

“It means you’re going out with me,” he says matter-of-factly.

The guy could take a cue from his cologne.

It’s difficult at my five foot, seven inches, compared to his every bit of six foot, three inches, to look my nose down at him, but I try my best. “You might have a better shot if you weren’t drunk at eleven in the morning. Not saying it’s a good shot, but a snowball’s chance is better than none.”