Page 5 of Possessive Ink

“I can—” I start to protest, but the older man’s raised eyebrow makes me feel like a kid, so I nod and slip into the passenger seat.

Five minutes later, all the boxes are loaded into the trunk, and Ricky steps out of the back door wearing a tweed sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. For the first time, I wonder how old he is. I’ve always assumed he was in his fifties, but right now he looks much older.

A wave of regret at letting him lug all the boxes into the car washes over me, and shame and guilt threaten to consume me. If I’d just remembered to come and pick up the order earlier, then he wouldn’t have had to bail me out. Although, honestly, he’s been bailing me out since I started working for Wes at his spa resort a little over two years ago.

My official job title is receptionist, but recently, I think errand girl is probably a more accurate description of what I do. Wes Landers, my boss, came into some money when a distant aunt of his passed and named him as the sole beneficiary of her estate. He decided to invest the money into an old house that had been used as a quaint B&B and convert it into what he calls a spa resort.

In actuality, it’s a house with eight bedrooms, an indoor pool with a sauna, and a couple of treatment rooms. When I saw the receptionist job advertised, I thought it sounded perfect for me. When I actually get to spend time at reception greeting the clients, I love it. Only little by little Wes has started treating me more like his PA than the resort’s first point of contact, which is how I’ve ended up here.

“Thank you, Ricky. I’m so grateful for your help. I hope you know how much I appreciate you,” I tell him the moment he slips into the driver’s seat beside me.

“You’re a good girl, Lemon. I don’t want you to lose your job, but you have to learn to be more organized,” he says, slipping his key into the ignition and bringing the car to a spluttering start.

“I know,” I exhale, hanging my head a little. “I’m trying, but Wes keeps adding things to my to-do list, and I just end up running around in circles trying to get everything done. So far today he’s sent me from one side of town and back again twice.”

Flashing me a gentle smile, he nods. “I know.”

I’m thankful that Wes isn’t there when Ricky slows his car to a stop outside the resort. “I’ll help you bring them all inside,” he offers.

“No, I can do it. You’ve already done enough for me today,” I tell him.

“Nonsense,” he dismisses me, climbing out and opening his trunk.

It only takes a few minutes for us to bring all the boxes inside and stack them in the storage room. “Thank you,” I tell Ricky, throwing my arms around the older man and hugging him.

He stiffens, then relaxes, patting my back. “You’re welcome,” he says softly.

I wave goodbye as he pulls his station wagon away from the curb and accelerates down the street. Exhaling tiredly, I head back into the building and take up my position behind the front desk, stashing the little noticeboard—that appeared when Wes started asking me to handle his errands—back in the drawer beneath the desk.

I hate that Wes thinks that a board saying, We’re busy helping other guests right now, but our team of dedicated service staff are ready to take your call, so please contact us to assist you, replaces the personal service our clients would get if they were talking to me face-to-face.

Right now, at least half of my days are spent dealing with his demands. I collect his dry cleaning, book restaurants for his dates, and sometimes he even has me call them when he wants to cancel. I look after his dog and open the gate for his gardener. In fact, I feel like I spend more time running around doing the things he can’t be bothered to handle than I do greeting guests and actually being at the resort.

The problem is that Wes has a habit of texting me dozens of tasks he wants me to handle each day, and sometimes—okay, a lot of the time—some of the tasks involved with my actual receptionist job get forgotten about, which is when situations like today happen.

By the time eight p.m. rolls around, I’m frantically scrolling through Wes’s messages, checking that I’ve done everything that he’s asked of me. Once I’m fairly sure that I have, I start to work through my end-of-day checklist.

Some guests show up just as I’m physically checking things off the list I keep on my cell. “Hi, guys. How can I help?” I ask them as they approach.

“We were actually hoping there might be availability for us to join the twilight yoga class?” a gray-haired lady asks.

“Let me have a look,” I say, pulling up the booking software on the computer. “Is it just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re in luck. There are two spaces available. You’re in room three, right?”

“That’s right,” the woman says with a smile.

“Okay, then. I’ve booked you both in the class. It starts in five minutes by the pool. Your instructor is Devon, and he’s amazing. Would you like to add two of our Zen mocktails to enjoy after the final meditation? They are so good, and I promise you’ll have the most amazing night’s sleep after. Or if you’re planning to head out for a late dinner afterward, I can arrange for a bottle of prosecco to be waiting for you in your room.”

The ladies look at each other, then shrug and start to laugh. “Prosecco sounds great. Also, do you have any recommendations for somewhere for dinner?”

“How do you feel about Spanish food?” I ask. “Because there’s a new pop-up tapas restaurant that’s just opened for the summer. Their garlic shrimp and patatas bravas are to die for. I can call and see if they have a table available if you’d like.”

“That sounds perfect,” the women say excitedly.

Smiling, I pull up the number, call, and make them a reservation. “Okay, ladies, enjoy your twilight yoga. Your prosecco will be chilled to perfection in your room after your class, and if you have room after dinner for dessert, I strongly recommend the tres leches cake.”