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“I’m afraid so, but I’ll be back in a few days. I hope the two of you will keep this place spic and span while I’m gone,” he says. “I’ll be in California, finishing a purchase.”
“Best of luck,” I reply.
He gives me a wink and walks out, much like Levi before him. Connie giggles—she does that whenever he’s around. I think she would’ve totally made a move on him if she were closer to his age and still single. I doubt she’d be able to handle the four of them, but she’d definitely give Beau a run for his money. Laughing inwardly, I help her push the carts into the kitchen, then follow her back into the lobby so we can decide which room to clean next.
Samantha comes down the stairs wearing a tight, brown, velvet dress with knee-high deerskin boots, her platinum hair combed over one shoulder and golden bangle bracelets loaded around her bony wrists. I don’t like the smug look on her face. From what I remember, she’s supposed to be checking out today.
“What is she still doing here?” Connie mutters.
“I have no idea,” I whisper back.
We stay still and quiet, close enough to the reception desk to overhear the conversation as Samantha speaks to Callie, our morning receptionist. “I’d like to extend my stay.”
“Ugh,” I hear myself groan.
“Right there with you, sister,” Connie mumbles.
Callie gives Samantha a pleasant smile. “Good morning, ma’am. You’d like to extend your stay?”
“That’s right,” Samantha says.
“I’m afraid we can’t offer the same room,” Callie tells her. “It’s already been booked, and we’re expecting new guests for it after noon today.”
Samantha scoffs. “That’s unacceptable. I should be able to stay in the same room.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how it works. The room has been pre-booked since before you checked in. I could move you to another room on the top floor, if you’d like. But you will have to check out of this one before midday today. We will gladly have you for another week, of course.”
“Fine. What other rooms do you have available? I need a penthouse.”
Just as Callie checks through the booking software, and just as I remain hopeful none of the fancier rooms are available for this harpy, Noah comes out of his office with a coffee mug, looking in dire need of a refill. As soon as he spots Samantha, however, he attempts a 180, but she sees him and brightens up like the frickin’ sun.
“Noah, honey! Good news! I’m staying for another week!” she announces.
“Hey, Samantha,” he says, clearly hesitant and likely hoping for a short conversation. “I’m happy to hear that.”
“But I can’t keep my room, apparently. Can’t you do something? I don’t want to move my things around like a homeless person.”
I would’ve taken that personally if I didn’t know how completely disconnected from reality this woman really is. Noah, on the other hand, retains a pleasant but dull smile as he looks at her. “Sorry, Samantha. If the room has already been booked, you’ll have to move. It’s not like I can tell our incoming guests the room they asked and paid for is no longer available.”
“Why not?” she asks with the greatest entitlement.
“Are you hearing this?” Connie mutters beside me. We’re flies on the wall again, partially hidden by the massive floral arrangement on the lobby table. “My girl thinks she owns the place.”
“Yeah, I’m hearing this.”
And it is getting to me, even though it shouldn’t. It’s not the threat of another woman that’s bothering me; it’s the plethora of constant reminders of who I am and who I can be in the lives of four men who take up way too much space in my heart.
“I’m sorry, Samantha, I can’t do that,” Noah says, prompting the heiress to put on a rather dramatic pout. I think it’s supposed to tug at his heart strings, but judging by his heavy sigh, all it does is frustrate and annoy him.
“It’s so unfair.”
“You can either move to another room, or you can leave. We don’t have any other options,” he firmly replies.
I’d stick around and listen to the rest of the conversation, having just stolen a warm glance from him, but Connie and I have plenty of work left to do. We push the cleaning carts across the lobby, and we are about to split up when the front doors open wide. In comes the one man I never imagined I’d ever see here, and the sight of him is an instant punch to my stomach.
“Elijah,” I whisper, breathless as I watch my ex-husband walk in.
Tall and handsome with curly blonde hair and piercing green eyes, I’m briefly reminded of what drew me to him in the beginning. He was charming and chatty, and our conversations about life and the tourism industry in particular could go on for hours. We used to sit up all night and talk about the fancy hotel we’d someday own and run together. I can remember the details, too—of how I wanted the lobby and reception area to look, of which designers we’d call in for our premium suites, of what kind of food we’d serve at the ground-floor restaurant. We even had mood-boards on a wall in the living room where we’d add cutouts from interior design and hospitality magazines, adding something to them every week.
