Spring Fling

by Claudia Burgoa

  “Monday?” I asked again.

  She nodded her head, already moving on from the conversation to the wilting flowers at a nearby table. “Eight in the morning. Sharp.”

  Pushing my way past servers, partygoers, and a holier-than-thou Matilda, I made my way to the alcove of elevators past the lobby. I ran to reach the last elevator on the right, its doors beginning to close mercilessly. I was all-out sprinting now, which wasn’t the best look in heels and a little black dress, but I’d been working since eight this morning, and it was two past midnight. I needed a hot bath and a whole day of sleeping on the designer mattresses made for foreign dignitaries.

  “Wait!” I called out to the two masked occupants inside.

  They stared at me but didn’t bother holding the door open as I dove inside the elevator, barely managing to escape getting clipped by the heavy metal doors. I bumped into the man, who steadied me with a large palm before stepping back. My cheeks burned red, and I averted my eyes from his towering build and bespoke suit.

  Ignoring my irritation with them both, I pressed the button to the twenty-third floor, brushing against the woman’s arm as she stood in my way. She scooted as far away as possible at my touch, her silver-coated mask shifting with the movement.

  Her runway-thin body looked gorgeous in the sequined dress she wore, the same color as her mask. Her pouty red lips were pursed, her defined cheekbones jaunty, and her face perfectly made up.

  Meanwhile, I looked like the aftermath of a category four tornado. Fiery hair swept in dizzying directions. Green eyes framed by melted mascara and eyeliner, in the shape of a wilting raccoon. I could kiss my mask for hiding most of the liquified makeup.

  The elevator lights flickered, and I crossed my fingers and sent a mini-prayer to the powers that be that the power wouldn’t shut off, and I wouldn’t be stuck in this elevator with these two.

  My thin, silver name tag had fallen to the floor. I bent to pick it up the same time the man did. He reached it first, picking it up with delicate care I hadn’t expected. I reached my hand out for it, but he didn’t return it. Instead, his thumb brushed against my name engraved on the tiny metal rectangle.

  He stood abruptly, still holding onto my name tag. I straightened after him, confused and too tired to draw conclusions as he pressed the button for the sixteenth floor.

  The girl turned to him, her jaw unhinging. Her furrowed brows dipped into her mask. “What?”

  “We’re done for the weekend.”

  She clutched onto his arm as the elevator pinged. “But I thought—”

  “I don’t pay you to think.” He took a step back, extracting himself from her grip. “Check out time is at 8 A.M.”

  In six hours.

  I nearly winced for the poor girl.

  She dipped her head down and left the elevator without another protest. He was an asshole. Clearly. But it was none of my business.

  “Can I have my name tag back?” I asked, shifting at the awkwardness in the air.

  I’d seen men like him before. I didn’t need to look under his mask to know he was a classically handsome man with all the money and power in the world, who thought he could toy with people as he pleased. A man like my father.

  I loved my dad, but I didn’t love who he was. Obligatory love, my mom had called it when I’d tried to explain the pain in my soul. Only it felt too inadequate of a description.

  He toyed with the metal in his hand and whispered, his voice as deep and rich as his Westmancott suit, “Emery Winthrop.”

  I prayed against all odds he didn’t recognize my name. Probably one of the most recognizable names in the state of North Carolina. It wasn’t just my dad that had been dragged through the mud. Me and my mother bore emotional battle scars from the last four years, but I’d had it easy compared to her. She still lived in Eastridge, though I’d never understand why. No one wanted us there.

  The man placed the name tag in my palm and curled my fingers around it. The gesture was innocent enough, but it felt too intimate for strangers. My eyes met his, two hazel orbs I couldn’t look away from.

  What the hell was happening?

  Witchcraft.

  Had to be.

  I jerked my hand back, falling backward as the elevator screeched to a halt at the same time. The man wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me into him to steady me at the same time the lights flickered off.

  We were trapped.

  * * *

  Emery Winthrop

  * * *

  The damn storm.

  March, April, May. Storm season in North Carolina. It always took tourists by surprise. The sudden storms, and the vibrant sun that would peek out after the rain had cleared. But the man seemed unfazed, his breathing even as his spearmint breath fanned across my face. Like he was used to it. Maybe he was from this area, or maybe he was cold and emotionless.

  Either way, I took a step back, distancing myself. I instantly regretted it when my back hit the bar attached to the elevator wall, reminding me of how small this elevator was. I didn’t do well in enclosed spaces.

  My breathing spiked, coming out in short pants that filled the room.

  It was silent on the man’s end until he spoke, “Breathe in and hold.” I listened to him on instinct. “Now breathe out. Slower. There you go. Now do it again. In. Hold. Out.”

  I slid to the floor and let my head hit the wall as I sat with my legs straight out. They brushed against his shoes, but I couldn’t bring myself to care. “Thank you.”

  “Claustrophobic?”

  “Not really. Just bad in confined spaces.”

  “That is literally claustrophobia.”

  “I’m not,” I protested, because I had a million more pressing problems in my life. Like the mounting student loan debt, inability to pay my bills, lack of job prospects, and expired apartment lease.

  I was getting worked up again, my breaths coming out in pants, when he finally said, “Okay. You’re not.” He paused a beat, drawing out the seconds as it became clear I wasn’t calming down. “Tell me about your day.” His voice sounded irate, like he’d been forced to talk to me.

  “What?” I got what he was trying to do. Truly. I just couldn’t get myself to fall for the distraction, especially not with a total stranger who seemed pissed off to be in my presence.

  “I had breakfast at the White House, picked up an escort on the way to North Carolina, fired a few dozen people, and ended the night with a Pagan sacrifice. I’m about to head up to my suite and soak in a bathtub full of children’s tears.” He said it deadpanned. Completely serious.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “A part of me wonders if there’s actually a truth to any of that.”

  “You’ll never know.”

  “The Pagan sacrifice. You seem like the type.”

  “You don’t even know what I look like.”

  I groaned, staring in his direction in the blackness, feeling more comfortable than I thought I would with a total stranger who spoke with venom in his voice one second and thawed ice the next. “Whose idea was it to do a masquerade?”

  “According to the name tag, you’re the event coordinator.”

  “The event coordinator’s minion,” I corrected.

  “And how did you get the job?”

  “Excuse me?” So he had recognized my name. My brows furrowed as I defended, “Not by nepotism if that’s what you’re accusing.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Oh.” I blew out a breath, the fire in me deflated. “Nothing.”

  We settled into the mute darkness. I imagined the storm leaving mayhem and havoc in its wake outside. An hour passed in silence, and probably another hour or more would pass before someone realized we were in here. The hotel had reduced staff during these hours, and most had been directed to party duty.

  When I was half a second from falling asleep, he finally spoke again, “How do you like your boss?”

  I considered giving him a textbook answer but went
with the truth because it felt weird to lie about something so dumb. “She’s a little uptight and a lot to take in, but she’s not too bad. It’s her boss I have a problem with.”

  I didn’t know why I was telling him this. Part of it was the situation and sleep deprivation loosening my tongue. The other part of it was how much I needed to confide in literally anyone about what had happened four years ago. I was going insane. Or maybe I already was insane and had gotten worse at hiding it.

  “Your boss’ boss?”

  “I’m working for a man I hate.”

  He was quiet for a moment. The sudden urge to peek inside his head and figure out what he was thinking gripped me. That was the part of me that got too worked up about what others thought about me talking.

  “Hate is a strong word,” he finally replied.

  “It is,” I agreed. “And entirely accurate.”

  “Why do you hate him?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “You’re right. We have so many better things to do in here.”

  The smile slipped onto my lips before I could stop it. I sighed before relenting, “I’m in love with a man who doesn’t love me back.”

  “Sounds like the plot to a cheap Hallmark movie.”

  “Or a horror one. It’s like the gender reversal of You.”

  “You’re the next Ted Bundy.”

  “Don’t underestimate me.” My calf knocked against his thigh. I didn’t know exactly where he was in the elevator, and that made my pulse thrum in excitement. God, I was crazy. “I grew up with this boy whose dad worked for mine. We spent every day together, and every day, I fell more and more in love with him. I was eighteen when I decided I was going to confess my love for him then sleep with him.” I pushed the mortification away because it felt good to tell someone, even a stranger, about that day. “I snuck into his room. It was dark, and one thing led to another, and I slept with him. Only, when the lights turned on, I realized it wasn’t him. It was his older brother. He’d thought I was his in-town hookup, and I thought he was his brother. I’ve never told anyone that my first and only orgasm through sex was with my best friend’s older brother.”

  My cheeks burned in the darkness, but it felt too good to come clean. If only I could gather the nerve to tell Reed this. The mountainous lie that always made me feel awkward and guilty near him. Was it fair to place the blame on Nash? No, but it was easy. Especially since he wasn’t the nicest person in the world.

  “Your only orgasm…”

  I rolled my eyes and straightened up. “That’s what you got out of that? You’re such a guy.”

  He ignored me and pressed, “How long has it been?”

  I considered lying for the fiftieth time. I had issues. “About four years.”

  I was painfully aware of what I remembered of him from when the lights had been on. A defined jaw. Full lips. Hypnotic hazel eyes, hidden behind a sleek all-black mask. Dark hair short on the sides but perfectly tussled on top. I couldn’t even see a third of his face, but he was easily the most attractive man I’d been near in years. Four, to be exact.

  I needed to get over what had happened. I had a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas, and I’d named it Nash Prescott when, in reality, he hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d been the one to jump on top of him and beg him to fuck me.

  Getting over the past and moving on seemed easy in theory. In reality, I couldn’t make that first leap. I couldn’t find the first guy to take a leap with. Even for a meaningless hookup. But a part of me wondered why it couldn’t be here, in this elevator, with this stranger, where I wouldn’t have to face the consequences and we could both part ways after.

  I hesitated before asking, “If I were to kiss you, what would you do?”

  He didn’t answer me. Nerves swelled in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. I swayed toward him, not sure if I was hoping he’d tell me to back away or come closer. Feeling around in the dark, my palm connected with his forearm. He didn’t stop me as I crawled forward until I reached him.

  My lips sought his, hitting his cheek instead. He didn’t stop me, but he didn’t encourage me either. I crawled his way, sliding onto his lap, my movements hesitant but everything in me wanting.

  Sliding my mask off, I tossed it to the side. My fingertips explored his face, the modelesque stature, the cheekbones, the jawline, the full lips. I brushed my thumb against the bottom one, enjoying the way he groaned as I parted them.

  And then I kissed him, sliding my tongue in before I could remind myself of the definition of the words regret and caution. When his hands touched my waist, I bit down on his lower lip, silently begging him to lose control with me. He didn’t.

  Instead, his fingers curled around the narrowest part of my waist and tightened, like he was stopping himself. And trying hard at that. It was a blow to my ego as much as it stroked it. I locked my legs around his waist and ground into him.

  He sucked in a breath. His body responded to me. I knew he wanted me. My short dress had slid up, and his erection hit me right there. But he wasn’t acting on it, and even though he was a stranger, and even though I’d never see him again, I cared. I wanted to feel wanted, instead of being cast aside like everyone in my goddamn town had done to me.

  I’d slipped my tongue past his lips, because I couldn’t control myself. He tasted like mint and a hint of whisky, better than I remembered any man tasting. My fingers curled around the base of his neck and toyed with the tips of his hair. I could kiss him all day, if only he’d kiss me back.

  The elevator shook, interrupting us. He clutched me tighter, gripping my waist almost possessively. The lights flickered on. I opened my eyes, taking a second to get used to the brightness before I focused my eyes on him, excited to see him—really see him—for the first time.

  Oh, God.

  I stumbled backwards, and my jaw dropped as I looked into two familiar hazel eyes, and he said two all-too-familiar words.

  “Easy, Tiger.”

  * * *

  Emery Winthrop

  * * *

  Waking up the next morning felt like waking up from hibernation with a major hangover. I clutched onto my head as I rolled off the hotel bed and dug through my bag for painkillers. I snagged two and swallowed them dry as a knock sounded at the door again.

  The first set of knocks had been what had woken me up in the first place. Padding barefoot to the door, I peeked through the peep hole. I didn’t know why I thought it’d be Nash, but it wasn’t. A uniformed staff member stood on the other side, waiting for me to open the door.

  I swung it open and let him in. He pushed a cart past me, a smile on his face, too damn chirpy for a Saturday morning. I took in the spread as he unveiled it. A full breakfast of eggs, bacon, bagels, coffee, hash browns, and French toast. I had no idea how I was going to pay for this.

  My stomach grumbled loudly as I said, “Thank you, but I didn’t order this.”

  “Compliments of Mr. Prescott, Miss Winthrop.”

  Shit.

  I’d been hoping last night had just been a dream.

  Confiding in Nash Prescott.

  Kissing Nash Prescott.

  Running out on Nash Prescott as soon as the elevator doors had opened.

  We hadn’t even been on my floor, but I found the staircase and sprinted up the remaining three flights to my room. He’d let me talk to him about that night, knowing exactly who I was and what I was saying.

  What an asshole.

  If anyone else had sent me this breakfast spread, I’d take it as a gift. But this was Nash Prescott, and I had the sneaking suspicion he always had an agenda. How else could I explain last night? I wouldn’t fall for it. Whatever it was.

  “Really,” I glanced at the employee’s name tag, “Ryan, I can’t accept this.”

  A frown found its way onto his face, tugging at my guilt strings. “It’ll go in the trash can if you don’t, ma’am.”

  I eyed the French toast. “Okay. Can you put it in front of the
bed?”

  “Certainly.”

  As soon as he left, I grabbed a slice of French toast and opened my laptop on the table. I sniffed the toast, even though (1) I couldn’t smell poison and (2) the idea of Nash Prescott poisoning me was about as ridiculous as North Carolina’s drunk bingo ban.

  Browsing through real estate listings, I bookmarked a few apartments in Alabama before switching to North Carolina. If I were being honest, I missed it here. I missed the beaches and the food and the atmosphere, Reed, and Mom. But Matilda and her beady eyes had proven last night that North Carolina hadn’t missed me.

  I exited out of the tab, finished off the breakfast because I couldn’t afford not to, and took a shower. There was another knock on the door. I answered it with a towel on my head and a snarl on my face, not sure why I’d been expecting Nash. Ego, perhaps?

  The woman on the other side looked startled. I reeled the attitude back in and gave her an apologetic smile.

  “I have a delivery for Miss Winthrop?”

  “That’s me.” I backed up to let her in.

  She placed a thick envelope and fancy retail box on the coffee table before leaving. There were clothes inside the box. I could tell. Probably a floor-length evening gown, judging by the thickness of the box. Still, I couldn’t open it or the envelope.

  Instead, I ignored it, changed, grabbed the waterproof eReader Reed had given me for Christmas last year, and headed to the pool. It took all of two seconds for Nash Prescott to find me sipping on water on my lounger.

  I tried to ignore him, but he was standing there in his three-piece suit, and literally everybody was staring as he watched me pretend to read in my tiny black bikini. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say they weren’t staring at him because he wore a suit at the pool. They were staring at him because he was flat-out gorgeous and, in the span of four years, had suddenly become one of the country’s most eligible bachelors.

  “What?” I finally asked, doing my best not to peek up at him.