Spring Fling

by Claudia Burgoa

The receptionist standing behind the counter in her black blazer at the Royal, the most exclusive resort in the Florida Keys, frowns at her computer screen.

  That’s the first bad sign.

  She clicks around on her keyboard, more slowly, more determined, a faint wrinkle indenting her forehead. I’m not an idiot. I can sense when something has gone horribly wrong with a reservation. It’s easy to sense, because hotel receptionists always give themselves away.

  That doesn’t mean I’ll lose my shit over it like an idiot. I’ve seen it happen more often than I’d like, and let me tell you: the guy doing the yelling never turns out to be the winner, even if he thinks he is.

  I take a quiet breath in through my nose and exhale it through my mouth. A slight delay with the receptionist is nothing compared to the non-stop avalanche of crises I deal with every day. I don’t expect it to get less intense when I return from this, either, my first vacation since I started at the firm. Now that I’ve been promoted to junior partner, I thought it was time to cash in on five of the umpteen days I’ve banked over the last few years before I head back into the fray.

  I miss it. The fray, I mean. I’ve been throwing elbows since the first day out of law school, always demanding more new clients. The old ones want me, too. I am sought after.

  Which is why I’m so certain that this will all turn out in my favor. How could it not? I hopped a plane from New York City, and the Florida morning I arrived to is bright and warm and utterly free of case briefs. It’s a little unsettling, but I have never let being unsettled stop me from doing anything else in life. It sure as hell won’t stop me from checking into my suite at the Royal.

  The receptionist flicks her gaze to the side, and for the first time, I register that I’m not the only one waiting at the desk. There’s a woman in a skirt suit down at the other end. I glance at her long enough to know that it’s a nice skirt suit and it fits her very well, then turn my attention back to the receptionist. I won’t eye-fuck the first woman I see on my vacation. That would be rude.

  “Excuse me for one moment, sir.” The receptionist, whose name tag reads Emma, steps away from her computer, beckoning to the other guy standing behind the front desk. They meet in the middle and confer for a moment. They’re all fake smiles.

  Someone’s getting some bad news.

  Emma returns to her station at the reception desk and looks me squarely in the eye, “Sir—Mr. Bliss. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s been a problem with your reservation.”

  I flash her my most agreeable smile. “What kind of problem? If you need me to upgrade rooms, I’ll be more than happy to oblige.”

  She frowns again, biting her lip this time. “This is...a rather unfortunate circumstance, and I do apologize in advance for the inconvenience.”

  “All right. Upgrade away.” I push my credit card toward her across the desk, but she doesn’t reach for it.

  “I’m very sorry.” She continues looking me straight in the eye even as my brain struggles to process the fact that she’s not taking my money. They train their people well here—she doesn’t as much as flinch at the confusion that must be evident on my face. “There are no other rooms available to which I am able to upgrade you. We’re fully booked for the entire next week.”

  I step a little closer to the desk. “No other rooms?”

  “That’s the thing.” By the color rising in her cheeks, this is not a normal hotel crisis, and it’s definitely not the kind of crisis a place like the Royal faces very often. Resorts of this scale and exclusivity rarely fuck up with their reservations. “We only have one room available.” Her eyes dart between me and the woman at the other end of the counter. “And there are two of you.”

  I lean in a little closer and lower my voice. “There’s not one other room left on the whole premises? Not the backup of your backup?” My cousins are in the resort industry themselves, so I’m not a luxury hotel virgin. There has to be a room somewhere. It might take a little pressing to reveal it, but....

  “I’m afraid not.” One more look in her eyes, and I know she’s not lying.

  A tight knot in my chest unclenches. Well, there it is—the reason I can’t go on vacation. I let out a little sigh that’s partly for show. I was looking forward to staying at the Royal, but this only means I can get ahead at work. What’s the downside? I get promoted to partner earlier and spend my days in a glassed-in corner office the size of my entire apartment? It would be a real shame.

  “What do you mean, there’s only one room?”

  Clearly, the other almost-guest has received the same news as I have, only she’s not taking it nearly quite so well. Her voice is familiar enough that my pulse begins to race, but there’s no way it’s her. It’s someone with a similar voice, that’s all. And that someone is about to have a great day.

  I turn toward her, opening my mouth to say don’t worry. I’ll say you can take the room and I’ll head back to my firm in New York. Pay it forward someday. Then I’ll wink at the receptionist, grab my carry-on, and catch the next available taxi back to then airport.

  I have a plan.

  “Don’t worry.” The sound of my voice catches her attention, and she turns her head toward me.

  I’d know those eyes anywhere. Those dark, calculating, razor-sharp eyes. The moment they settle on my face, the words die in my throat. As they fade away into the afterlife, my heart rockets itself against my rib cage and the cool flush of adrenaline fills my veins.

  There’s no way in hell I’ll give up my room to Cecily Dean. Not now, not ever.

  “Oh, I’m not worried,” she shoots back. “I’m only waiting to check into my room.” Her eyes go wide for a split second, then narrow back into her characteristic glare. Red lips purse themselves into a tighter scowl that makes my skin feel like it’s on fire.

  Mr. Receptionist chooses that moment to chime in. “There’s only one room available.” He doesn’t dare raise his voice to a level that would disturb the vibe of the lobby, but it’s loud enough for us both to hear it. “Sir, madam—I’m afraid it’s up to the two of you to decide which one of you will take it. Since you both arrived at the same time, it would be rather unfair to—”

  Cecily laughs, one ringing ha that makes every muscle in my body tense in a way that’s not entirely unpleasant.

  Mr. Receptionist clears his throat. “When you’ve made the decision, it would be my pleasure to find alternative arrangements for the party who will not be staying with us. Those arrangements would, of course, be paid for by the Royal. It’s highly unusual that—”

  “Have you already printed the keys...” I ask, squinting at his name tag. “...Jason?”

  He looks down uncomfortably at a small, black envelope on the desk in front of him. “Yes, but there’s only one room available.” The end of the sentence trails off as if it doesn’t quite believe itself. “Only one of you can have it.”

  Cecily cuts a glance at him, and the poor guy quails. “How many keys have you printed?”

  “Two.”

  “Two. Good.” Cecily’s voice is as sharp as her eyes—so sharp I’m surprised the comment doesn’t draw blood. “Put them in two separate envelopes and split the bill for the room between us.” She cocks one hip to the side. The suit she is wearing is a dove gray color with pinstripes, and the way it fits her is practically a commandment. How can I look away when she looks like that? How can I look away when she’ll see that glance and consider it to be a sign of weakness? “I’m not budging.”

  I’m not a Cecily Dean virgin, either. So I look her straight in the eye even as my blood heats up and my vision sharpens. It’s a real fight-or-flight moment, and given the history between the two of us, I’m fairly certain which one it will be. Oh, it won’t be with fists. Cecily’s above that kind of thing, and so am I.

  I’m already standing as straight and tall as I can, but I tighten my abs, preparing to stand my ground against any kind of onslaught. “I won’t be leaving, either.”


  Cecily smirks. “Good.”

  “Great.”

  We stand silent while Jason types furiously at his keyboard and Emma splits the keys into two envelopes. She hands one to me with an air of warning, then steps back. She’s washed her hands of this. What happens now is between me and Cecily.

  Cecily turns away from the counter, envelope in hand, and grabs the handle of her carry-on. I match her stride, both of us a careful three feet apart.

  “The elevators are located in the hall straight ahead of you,” Jason calls out from behind us.

  “I’m sure we can handle it.” Cecily waves over her shoulder, a brisk little movement that dismisses him totally. “Or at least I can. I’m not so sure about you.”

  I don’t rise to the bait. I grin at her, trying my best to give the impression that I’m unbothered by this turn of events. “Then you’re in for a real treat.”

  * * *

  Cecily

  * * *

  I will not let Jaxon Bliss get the better of me. I will not.

  Beneath my calm exterior, my heart pounds. I’ve been practicing law in a man’s world for long enough to be in control of my facial expressions and body movements at all times, even in the face of idiots. It’s more than a little irritating that in this moment—of all moments—my heart isn’t cooperating, but I have no choice but to press on.

  I’ll never let him win.

  I can’t.

  He presses the button to call to the elevator a split second before I can reach it, so I step back and watch the indicator lights as it comes down from the fourth floor. Let him act like my butler if that’s what he wants to do.

  The doors open and Jaxon extends an arm, ushering me into the space. I step in, my head held high, and face resolutely forward as he follows me in. “Room 401,” he reads from the envelope in his hand. “Lucky number.”

  I school the urge to roll my eyes. “You still believe in luck, then?”

  He laughs, and the sound fills the small space as the elevator whisks us upward. “I’ve never believed in luck, Cecily. That’s a good one.”

  I want to ignore him.

  There’s only one problem: breathing in his scent, even after all this time, has triggered a cascade of memories that’s making it very difficult to focus on anything else. Even the insane prospect of spending a week here with him. I predict he won’t last five minutes, but that doesn’t help me now.

  Here’s the ugly truth: I let Jaxon Bliss get the better of me once before. We danced around each other for three years, with me always holding him at arm’s length, until one night during our third year of law school.

  It was only one night.

  It changed everything.

  Can you blame me if I’d never been with a man like Jaxon before? It wasn’t like I’d had the time during undergrad while I was hustling to graduate in three years. Frat boys never appealed to me. I took my share to bed, if only to feel something other than my hand, but I never knew what it could be like until that night with Jaxon. One moment I had my guard up, and the next moment I was stripped bare.

  I couldn’t tear myself away from him. Oh, I knew I was playing a dangerous game. I knew it. But I’d always been able to pull up at the last second even when the situation looked dire. Even when I was about to fall into the kind of pleasure that will addle your brain and change the synapses forever. The kind of pleasure that leaves you with cravings, even if you can get up and leave it behind at the end of the night.

  As it turns out, sex with Jaxon Bliss is not something you casually walk away from.

  In the end, it was so deliriously good that when my alarm went off the next morning, I didn’t hear it.

  I can’t explain to you how attuned I am to my alarm. I’ve always been that way. Missing even five minutes of a class has never been acceptable—not to my parents, and not to me. Me and the alarm—we’re entwined on a soul-deep level. We never let each other down.

  So when I woke up in his bed—his empty bed—and realized that I was late for class, I thought I might crumble into ashes right there and then. Because it wasn’t a regular business law class I had missed half of. It was a business law exam.

  I’ve never run so fast in my life, sprinting braless across the campus wearing a pair of Jaxon’s sweatpants.

  The elevator dings and comes to a halt, releasing us onto the fourth floor. A placard on the wall ahead of us points us to the left, and Jaxon waits patiently while I step out onto the carpet and make my way down the hall.

  So patient. Such a gentleman. He wasn’t a gentleman then, and I know exactly why.

  I made it to that class, and the professor, an older guy named Mr. Marks, must have seen the terror in my eyes because he didn’t say a word. He handed me the blue book and the exam sheet, the kind soul, but he would never go so far as to give me extra time to take the test. Did I make it my bitch anyway? Yes, I did.

  But I missed five points off my score. Jaxon Bliss, that traitor, only missed four. And thus our tie for first place in the class was broken.

  Jaxon gets to room 401 first and inserts his key into the lock with a flourish. I hold myself back from shoving his hand out of the way to unlock it myself. I do not want him to do everything first while we’re in this situation. But restraint is the way of a lady, and the last thing I want is for him to think he’s gotten under my skin.

  “The silver lining,” he intones, pulling his carry-on across the threshold. “—is that I booked....” He doesn’t finish the sentence.

  I pull my luggage in behind me. “Two rooms? That would be convenient.”

  “A suite,” Jaxon finishes. “A two-room suite.”

  I take all of five seconds to survey the accommodations. There’s a kitchenette and a living area that’s bathed in sunlight from the open curtains. It’s all done in pale blue, like sparkling shallow water, with navy accent pillows. Everything about it looks fresh and expensive, like the Royal is supposed to be.

  I wave a hand in front of us. “There are your two rooms.” And I am correct. The king-size bed is in another space, separated by an archway with no door.

  “You’re so cute when you’re being technical. I thought I booked a two-bedroom suite.”

  “Your finger must have slipped on the keys. Lucky me.”

  “Oh, you are lucky. You’ll get to see far more of me for however long you last.”

  Jaxon is right about one thing—he is a sight to behold. I’m around men in dress slacks every day of my life, but his fit him like something tailored. They’re probably custom. And the white dress shirt is doing things for me that I will never admit out loud.

  I brush off his last comment. “I’m booked in for a week.” Seven days of solitude. I’m getting promoted to junior partner, but only on the condition that I took a vacation first. This was part of the package, and that package was not supposed to include six nights with Jaxon Bliss.

  I’ll persevere.

  Because Jaxson is still standing there in the entryway and there is power to be grabbed, I take another big step into the room, then another, heading straight through to the bedroom. I heave my carry-on up onto the luggage rack and toss my purse onto the bed, then stretch my arms luxuriously over my head. “Well,” I say briskly. “I’ve been traveling all day. I’m d take a shower.”

  Jaxon releases the handle of his carry-on and crosses his arms over his chest, a familiar glint in his eye. I hate how familiar it is, and more than that, I hate how it makes me feel. I hate how it brings up the memory of looking into those blue eyes at close range, with his hands on my body and his cock—

  I drive my mind forcefully away from the thought as he says, “Go right ahead.”

  The bathroom is three steps away, and from what I can see out of the corner of my eye, it’s every bit as spacious and lovely as the main area.

  I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day. LaGuardia is hell on its best day, and I woke up at three this morning to put in a few hours at the office before I flew ou
t. I spent the entire flight fantasizing about locking the hotel room door behind me and stripping out of my clothes in peace, no rush, no prying eyes....

  I know. I know I could step into the bathroom and lock that door instead, but with Jaxon firmly planted in the middle of the living room with no barrier between us, it would seem like fleeing.

  And I’m not some scared little girl, thrown off by the presence of a sexy man.

  Not fucking today.

  “You know what?” He’s so cocky, so sure of himself. “You’re taking forever to get in. I can beat you in there.” Then, without another pause, his hands go to the buttons of his shirt. It can’t take him more than a few seconds, but I see every movement of his fingers, every slide of every button through every buttonhole.

  The shirt falls to the floor, and then he strips off his undershirt.

  I hate to admit it. I never want to admit it. But I’m in the presence of a god.

  * * *

  Jaxon

  * * *

  There—that fucking did it.

  Cecily stands on the other side of the archway into the bedroom. If I were anyone else on the planet, I’d believe her if she said she wasn’t amused. I’d take the set line of her lips as the gospel truth about what’s going on in her head. I wouldn’t have any other choice.

  It’s not the gospel truth. In fact, the faint blush in her cheeks is a dead giveaway, because I’m not anyone else on the planet. I’ve seen that color—and God, it’s specific—rise to her face more times than I can count.

  The power balance swings toward me, the air crackling with anticipation. Whose anticipation it is, I couldn’t tell you, but the space between us is thick with it. I make no move to cover my bare torso. Why would I? All those hours at the gym aren’t only to maintain my excellent mental and physical health, or to demonstrate to the partners at the firm that I maintain a semblance of work-life balance. They’re for times like this.

  It’s almost as if I’ve been preparing for this moment since the last time I saw her, which was the day we graduated from law school. Sometimes, when I’m heading into the office or going home for the night, I catch a glimpse of a woman…