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He’s slept here all week. Some nights he knocks at midnight. Some nights he appears at two. Some nights we drink hot chocolate and some nights we just get right to the sleeping. We wake up. He goes. We get on with our days.
Our new normal.
My gaze lingers on the crinkly blond hairs of his happy trail and the visible vein in the tight slab of muscle of his lower abs. Normal, but not normal. Our sleepovers may be platonic, but that doesn’t mean my thoughts always are. The man is… I swallow tightly and force myself to move away. He’s sleeping. And I’m on a man-ban.
We don’t talk about why he can’t seem to sleep without me, just like we never talk about why I’m always awake when he calls. The first rule of Sleep Club is apparently that we don’t talk about Sleep Club.
I don’t have time to dwell on it. I’ve got a ball to get rolling.
“A restaurant?” Mrs. Tristan tilts her head, her eyes narrowed as if she’s trying to picture me, the girl that’s been friends with her daughter since kindergarten setting up a business on her own. “This land comes with some strict building codes.” She pushes her reading glasses up her pointed nose, then glances at the listing again.
The plot is more expensive than I’d like, but it’s perfect. It’s on Talamanca, Clua’s largest beach. The walkway passes right behind it and there’s nothing but white sand and turquoise ocean in front of it. I twist my fingers in my lap, trying in vain not to stare at the streak of white in her otherwise rich chocolate-brown hair. “I’ve looked into it. No hotels. No high rises. Nothing higher than one story. All plans to be approved by the board.” Clua might be moving towards becoming a holiday destination, but we are doing it on our own terms. And that includes not turning our coasts to concrete. “I have the architect sketches right here.”
She eyes me warily, the same way she did when I was ten and her daughter accused me of pushing her into the swimming pool fully clothed—lips pursed, nostrils flared like she can smell my nerves. “We’ve had a lot of interest in the plots on Talamanca.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want to miss my chance.” I hold her stare and slip the sketches from my folder. The board may have the final say, but Mrs. Tristan will deal with the sale, and I have no doubt she’ll make her opinion heard. I need her on my side. I need her to take me seriously.
Her eyes widen when she picks up the paper, the beaded chain attached to her glasses swinging as she adjusts them again. I swallow. Try not to fidget. Picture what she’s seeing now. Simple lines. A rooftop terrace with its own bar, decorated with fairy lights and candles. It isn’t the technical drawings she’s looking at, it’s the rendering I had done to show the finished project. Tables on a wood-decked platform, bordered by tall lanterns. An inside area, softly lit, traditional Cluan design with a modern twist. Simple, dreamy, romantic. “You did this?”
I nod, way past being hurt at her clear dubiousness of my capabilities. “I can have the money ready this week.” My throat constricts, my mouth dry. I want this plot.
Her smile is tight. Mine starts off that way but spreads when she finally nods and slides the paper back across her dark-wood desk. “I can have the paperwork drawn up by the end of the week… given that the rest of the Council approves, of course.”
I stand when she does. Brush my hands down the creases in my pants, then hold one out to shake hers. “Thank you.”
Her amusement at the action is clear in the slight lift to her perfectly groomed eyebrows and the second’s pause before she takes it. “I’ll walk you out, Miss Rivas. My next appointment should be here.”
I head out of her office grinning big. Step one in the bag. Nothing can knock me off this high. I’m doing this. I’m really doing this. I’m—
Dark eyes. Darker hair. A suit so glaringly well cut it puts even Mrs. Tristan’s black skirt suit to shame.
Pete, the director of the Castle Hotel.My boss.
His eyebrows knit for a beat before they smooth back to professional blankness.
Mrs. Tristan strides out from behind me, hand already outstretched, a slight blush to her cheeks. “Mr. Cabrero.”
“Mrs. Tristan.” His chin dips in a slight bow before he turns to me. “Kenzi.” There are a gazillion questions in his dark eyes. He might be my boss, but he’s also my friend—and far too professional to ask me out-right. Thank God.
Mrs. Tristan’s eyelashes flutter, the pink to her cheeks deepening when Pete returns his full attention to her. “You’ll be on the lookout for a new receptionist now Miss Rivas is setting up on her own…” She trails off. Whether at the speed Pete’s gaze shoots to mine or the horror I’m pretty sure is written all over my face I’ve no idea.
I haven’t told him I’m leaving. I haven’t told him I was even thinking about leaving. “Pete… I…” I flick my gaze to Mrs. Tristan. What little speck of belief I thought I’d seen when she was looking at my plans wavers as she looks between us.
“She’ll be missed.” Pete covers his confusion better than I could ever hope to and smiles warmly at Mrs. Tristan. “The Castle Hotel group and I are one hundred percent behind her new venture.”
I’m dismissed with an eyebrow quirk and a very final “I’ll be in touch,” from Mrs. Tristan. “Mr. Cabrero, right this way.”
Pete hangs back when Mrs. Tristan heads back into her office, arms folded, forehead creased.
I try not to wince. It’s useless. I totally wince. “I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure I had everything in order.”
He sighs and unfolds his arms. “I had no idea. Can I ask what this new venture is?”
I glance over my shoulder to where the receptionist is tapping away at her computer, then step closer to Pete. “Restaurant,” I half whisper, half hiss. Tongues wag in Clua. Secrets don’t stay secrets for very long.
“I wish you’d come to me with this. I would have moved you to the hotel restaurant if you’d asked.”
I side-eye the receptionist. She’s listening. “Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
