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Two
Presley arrived in Beaumont Bay much later than she intended, after nine hours of road-tripping, traffic-sitting and rest-stopping. She dashed into the Beaumont Hotel, a dress protected by a plastic dry-cleaning bag draped over her forearm, and past a few bodies in the lobby on her way to the ladies’ room. She shouldn’t care about what Cash thought of her driving outfit, but there was no way was she interviewing her ex while wearing stretch pants and an oversize T-shirt.The hotel was as luxe as she’d expected, with huge columns and marble flooring, patterned rugs and clerks dressed in white shirts with smart black vests and pants.
She’d planned to arrive a few hours before the rooftop concert being held in this very hotel, but Fate had other plans. At least Gavin had tipped her off about the service elevator, a secret passage of sorts that would take her to the venue without her having to file upstairs with ticketed guests.
She changed in one of the bathroom stalls and then regarded her reflection in the attached sitting room, pausing for a scant second to absorb what she was seeing. The room was large, furnished with a pair of stuffed chairs and a settee. A glass table with a carafe of coffee was available for guests.
It’s theTaj Ma-Powder Room.
After brushing her teeth and freshening her makeup, she made quick work of finger-combing her auburn hair, which had wilted from the heat of the day. She hadn’t dared take the top off her Jeep, and was glad for the decision now. She’d driven through a hell of a rainstorm.
She tucked the dry-cleaning bag into the trash can and rolled her driving clothes into a wad before stuffing them into her bag. As she was preparing to walk out, a woman entered, a cacophony of voices following her in from the lobby.
Presley recognized the slightly desperate, demanding tone of the press when she heard it. She stepped aside to let the woman pass and then burst into the lobby, her purse on her shoulder as she waded into a sea of people.
Men and women with long-lens cameras, and others with cell phones in hand, shot photos and video of their subject. The one, the only—
“Cash Sutherland!” one reporter shouted. “Cash!”
A few others tried their luck with “Over here! Cash!” and at least one went the lowbrow route of inquiring loudly about his DUI.
Tacky.
Presley pushed through the crowd, catching sight of the top of Cash’s dark head, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, mouth a grim line.
Her world froze.
He was even grander in person than in her memory—and far more potent than his photos online. Memories threatened to surface, but she shoved them down as she wedged her way through the crowd. Memories would slow her down. If she wanted her life to finally begin moving—if she wanted to travel to places beyond her hometown—she needed to focus on the future, not the past.
An opening cleared thanks to a bellman trying to help with crowd control. Presley nestled in near a woman waving a concert T-shirt in the air. Cash scribbled his name on the shirt with a black marker before handing it back to her, never spotting Presley. The woman gazed longingly at her prize and Presley took advantage, slinking between her and the bellman to chase after Cash. A security guard just missed her, holding up his arms and shouting to the crowd to “give Mr. Sutherland some space!”
Sorry, Mr. Sutherland, ain’t gonna happen.
She skirted the front desk and caught up to a clerk shooing Cash into the service elevator. When the clerk nearly plowed into her, he frowned. She beamed up at the waifish man, her smile at full wattage.
“Thank you so much.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “I nearly lost him in the crowd. It was terrifying.”
The clerk waved her through, either not knowing she’d lied about arriving with the singer, or not caring. Just as Cash pressed a button on the panel on the elevator, she slipped inside. The doors whispered shut behind her, caging them in—literally since three of the walls were outfitted with iron bars over glass with a view of the elevator shaft.
“What the hell—” he started, his thick eyebrows lowering over his nose. Then his anger faded into surprise.
His low voice skipped over each and every one of her vertebrae, sending chills through her limbs even in the stuffy elevator car. She tried to speak but her tongue wouldn’t work while in such close proximity to the man who used to turn her inside out with merely a look.
He blinked. “Presley?”
In spite of every pep talk she’d given herself before this assignment, her mind wandered back to how his broad hands felt on her body. To how his firm lips used to turn her inside out. He’d given her more than one orgasm without kissing her below the waist. It’d been the thrill of her life at the time. Sadly, it still might be.
“Hi.” She licked her lips, preparing to say more, but the elevator car bumped and jerked like they’d boarded an amusement park ride instead. She grabbed hold of the nearest solid surface, in this case, stacks of glassware in large plastic racks destined for the bar.
Cash also gripped the rack of glasses, and her eyes moved from those long, talented fingers to his attractive hands and then up his arm to the ink that vanished into the sleeve of a black T-shirt.
There it was. The tattoo of music notes wrapping around a guitar she’d seen in photos. Or part of it anyway. Half of the colorful design was hidden.
The elevator jerked again, but rather than complete its ascent to the roof it bumped and whined in place. Overhead, the lights flickered.
“Service elevators. Yikes,” she said to break the silence.
Cash was not amused. She wasn’t sure if the fluorescent lights were to blame, but he appeared slightly green in color. A fine sheen of sweat coated his upper lip. His knuckles, wrapped tightly around the rack of glasses, stood out in stark contrast from the rest of his tanned skin.
