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“Oh.”
Whereas the other rooms would have fit perfectly under the definition of “relaxing” in the dictionary, this room combined quiet grandeur with a masculine touch. The walls were painted a light gray, except for the accent wall behind the bed that was comprised of dark wood. An industrialized black light fixture hung over the bed, which was a gargantuan piece of furniture covered in a slate-colored blanket. Six pillows, the cases smoothed to perfection, were lined up against the headboard.
But it was the pictures that caught her eyes, three above the headboard. She stepped into the room, her eyes soaking in the colorful photographs. In one, a man wearing an orange feathered headdress with a bright red band of paint covering his face stared into the camera, his eyes piercing through the picture. The one next to it featured a woman twirling in a blue dress with a giant silver bow on her chest, her smile still visible despite the white fringe that cascaded from her matching headdress over her face. The third portrayed a man in a green robe with a birdlike mask obscuring his face, a jeweled beak jutting out over his jaw and emerald feathers standing proudly up from the top of the mask as he held a matching scepter out to the photographer.
“Grant, these...these are incredible,” she breathed.
The colors, the energy, all of it drew her in as she neared the photos, soaking in every detail. Her florist’s mind matched the vivid hues to different flowers, creating arrangements in her head that would mirror what she saw.
“You won’t need to do flowers for this room.”
She turned, not bothering to hide her disappointment. “Why not?”
“It’s my room.”
The room shrank around them as she realized she was standing just a foot away from Grant’s bed. She felt like an idiot. Of course it was his room. All of the other rooms were beautiful but lacked that personal touch of having someone who lived in them. Whereas this room... She glanced over her shoulder once more at the picture of the woman swirling in a circle, so carefree and happy in the midst of what looked like a very joyful celebration.
“I don’t mind doing flowers for your room, too. In fact, I’d like to.” She gestured at the photographs. “These would—”
“No.”
Her head whipped around, blinking in shock at the amount of coldness in that one word.
“Why?”
“I’m your employer, not your friend. Not your lover,” he added with punishing precision. “I don’t need a reason.”
No, he didn’t, she acknowledged as she did her best to ignore the bite of his words. But something was going on. Could it be that he hadn’t wanted her to see his private room? Or was it something to do with his home country, the pain she’d glimpsed in his eyes downstairs?
Once upon a time she would have gently pressed him, laid a comforting hand on his shoulder as he shared bits and pieces of himself. Once, he had told her the horrors of coming home to find his mother bent over his father’s body, cradling him to her chest and sobbing like she would never know happiness again. Grant hadn’t cried as he’d told the story in a monotone voice, but he had leaned into her embrace, buried his face in her hair and breathed in deeply. It had been the first time she’d felt strong for someone else, been their rock.
No more, she reminded herself as she glanced once again at the photos and then turned her back.
“No, Mr. Santos, you don’t need a reason.” She looked down at her tablet, focused on the screen as she typed in a note. “No flowers for this room.”
Silence settled, thick and heavy. She tucked her tablet into her bag and started for the door, keeping her gaze averted. She was embarrassed, yes, but also sad. The room reminded her of the man Grant had become: professional, cool and aloof. Yet, somewhere beneath that suave exterior she suspected still beat the heart of the man she had fallen for that summer; someone with a big grin who would have given anyone the shirt off his back.
She was so focused on her melancholy thoughts that she didn’t notice Grant was still standing in the door, blocking her exit. She walked straight into his chest, stumbling backward when she hit six feet three inches of immovable billionaire. Grant grabbed her elbow to steady her, but the quick motion just made her tip forward as she tried to keep a hold on her bag.
She fell against him and his arm snaked around her waist. Awareness crashed over her like the waves smashing onto the beach, leaving her breathless as she stared at the tan skin visible at the base of his throat.
“I’m sorry,” she squeaked. “I wasn’t looking.”
“I noticed.”
She started to pull back, but his arm was like a band of iron. She swallowed hard and finally forced herself to look up. The gesture had the unfortunate result of bringing her mouth within a few inches of Grant’s. Her eyes dropped down to his lips, firm and full. What would kissing him be like now? Would he still tease the seam of her mouth with his tongue, nibble on her lower lip until she gasped and granted him access, laughing as he kissed her senseless?
His head lowered, just a fraction, but enough to startle her and make her pull back. Her eyes jerked back up to his.
“You should be more careful, Miss Waldsworth.”
This time she couldn’t stop the hurt that swept through her at the use of her old name. If he hadn’t made it abundantly clear that he thought of her as nothing but an employee, his continued use of her father’s surname was the nail in the coffin. There would be no kisses, no moments of intimacy, no lovers’ confessions. That was in the past.
Focus on your job.
“I will, Mr. Santos.” She shook his hand off and stepped back, squaring her shoulders as she met his gaze head-on. “If you’ll excuse me, I have more pictures to take.”
He stared at her with that unflinching glower. But this time she didn’t back down. He had put her in her place. She would stay there. But she would do a damned good job as the florist for the Pearson Group and show Grant and all of his wealthy guests what she was capable of.
