Page 14 of Counting Down To You

He glances at Elodie. “I got an earlier flight. Came straight here to see how everything was looking.”

Charlotte stands up, a little abruptly, and lifts her half-finished plate of food from the table. “I’ve got work to do,” she mumbles, not looking at this Brooks man. Her cheeks are still flushed with embarrassment.

“Yes. You do.” Brooks checks his watch pointedly. “Shouldn’t you all, in fact, be somewhere else right now?”

Everyone jumps to their feet, even Lucie. They are nervous of him, I realize, with a prickle of unease. Does that mean he ranks above them? Above us? I stand too, though I have no idea where I’m supposed to go. I can’t look at Brooks, though I can feel everyone else glancing between us as they leave the restaurant. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

Lucie hovers for a moment longer than the others. She’s taller than me in those heels, but she still has nothing on Brooks. “I’ll leave it to you to explain how things work, then?” Her voice isn’t quite as frosty as it was with me—it’s more coolly polite, with an undertone of something else. Brooks raises his eyebrows at the sound of it, and she clears her throat, gives him a nod. “If you need anything, you know where I am.”

“Well, I need you to make sure Johann fixes the room debacle from yesterday, for one thing. From my emails it looks like it was a bit of a fuck-up.”

Lucie bites her full lip. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

And it clicks. I’m being slow today, though, to be fair, this is a bit of a shock. He does rank above us. Because he’s the manager, isn’t he? And not just a manager like the rest of us, but like an actual boss. My boss.

Lucie leaves the restaurant, while Elodie clears away the remaining dishes. I still haven’t moved when Brooks’s attention zones back in on me, his stare direct and forceful. I swallow. “I’ll just…” I wave a hand toward the restaurant exit. Maybe he didn’t hear Charlotte’s girlfriend comment. Maybe there’s still a way to get through this unscathed.

“No,” he says. It doesn’t sound angry, but it leaves no room for argument. “Let’s speak in private.”

I nod, because what else am I supposed to do, and he jerks his head in silent instruction. I can feel Elodie’s gaze burning my back as I follow Brooks—no doubt this will give her and Lucie something to talk about later. I wonder what it looks like from the outside. Will this exchange dispel the illusion that we’re dating?

My whole body is hot with mortification as I follow Brooks down a corridor and to a small room off to the left, with a couple of armchairs positioned each side of a roaring fire. The heavy velvet curtains are tied back, and out of the window I can see the whiteness of our surroundings. He ushers me inside, then shuts the door behind us. I wonder if this is his office. It doesn’t exactly look like an office, though, more like one of the guest rooms.

He gestures for me to take a seat in one of the armchairs. When I do, I sink lower than I expected and have to flail my arms to hoist myself up into a better position. His pale gaze stays level on me the whole time, in a way that makes me even more self-conscious. Instead of taking a seat opposite me, he leans against the arm of the chair, his ankles crossed, and looks down at me.

“So. Want to explain what the fuck is going on?” His voice is still relatively calm, but there is a bit more bite now that we’re alone. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

I wet my lips. “I…I’m Ali Reynolds.”

He nods slowly, his gaze flickering over my face. “Okay. Are you…” His brow pulls together. “Are you stalking me or something?”

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. “No!” Though, to be fair, I can see why he might think that. “No, I’m…I’m the new guest-relations manager.”

He folds his arms as he studies me, like he’s deciding whether to believe me or not. Maybe this is why he took it all so calmly out in the restaurant—if he genuinely thought I’m a stalker, then maybe he thought it was safer to speak to me alone. And this is so totally ridiculous.

“Here,” I say, fumbling in my trouser pocket for my phone. “I can show you the email confirmations and everything.” I tap on the screen, lift it for him to see. He glances at it, though he doesn’t take the phone.

“Ali Reynolds,” he repeats, saying my name slowly, like he’s trying it out for size.

“Yes.” I place the phone on my lap, then rub my clammy palms against my legs.

“Right.” His tone gives nothing away. “New joiner.”

“Exactly.”

His head tilts to one side. “You are the girl from the taxi, though, right?”

“I…” But I can think of no way to deny that one. “Yes. Sorry about that. Again.”

“Did you recognize me from the hotel website or something? Is that why you took my photo?”

“God, no.” But he didn’t buy the Downton Abbey thing, then. Improv—clearly not my thing. “I know this sounds mad, but it was just an impulse thing.”

“Right.” He looks very much like it does sound mad. Then he straightens, and his arms fall to his sides. “So do you want to explain how my staff all think we’re dating?”

I squint my eyes shut. So he heard that bit, then. Bloody Charlotte.

“You know,” he says mildly, “contrary to popular belief, when you can’t see someone, they can still see you.”