Straight from the Hart

by Tracie Banister

  ‘Business dinner, business dinner, business dinner,’ I chant the mantra in my head for what feels like the umpteenth time tonight.

  “Masters said he’d give me the best table in the restaurant tonight, and I do like that this one is close to the fire pit, but I’m thinking Jax and Jaz would invite less attention if they were seated at a table in one of the alcoves at the back of the restaurant.”

  Alex does a quick visual sweep of the area and when his gaze returns to me, he presses his lips together as if he’s trying to suppress a grin. “Wherever they’re seated here, I don’t think Jax and Jaz will be bothered. Everyone seems to be pretty focused on what’s going on at their own tables.”

  Glancing around to see what Alex is talking about, I find that all of those happy couples I noticed on the way in are now taking full advantage of the dimmer lighting. At the table directly behind Alex, I observe a man sliding his hand beneath his date’s skirt, and on the other side of the fire pit this blonde in a slinky, boob-baring dress is so close to her companion while they eat the same shrimp from opposite ends that she might as well be sitting in his lap. Then there’s the pair of hotties with matching scruff occupying the alcove behind me who are performing tonsillectomies on each other with their tongues. It’s a freakin’ pheromone fiesta up in here!

  I picture those chemicals dancing toward us while shaking maracas and wish I had a big can of Hormone Off—anything to keep those libido stimulators away. Ugh. Maybe I will take a swig of that swimming pool-sized margarita after all. I need something to take the edge off, or this is going to be a very long night. One little sip won’t hurt, right?

  CHAPTER 35

  Something tickles the sole of my bare foot and I kick it away with a groan of protest, but it travels up to my shoulder where I feel a gentle nudge.

  “Nessa.” More nudging.

  I smack the tickler/nudger, which I’ve now identified as a hand, then roll over so that my face is buried in my pillow. My nice, soft, comfy pill— Wait a second, if I’m in bed, who’s in here with me?

  “Nessa.” The fingers brush aside my hair, and the sensation of them skimming across the sensitive skin on my neck makes me bolt upright, flinging my hands around like I’m Tippi Hedren fending off an attack in The Birds—a movie my grandmother desperately wanted to be in, but Hitchcock wouldn’t even let her audition because he was stuck on casting another one of his icy blondes.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s just me,” Alex says, and I shove aside the tangled mess of curls hanging down in my face to see him standing at the side of the large sleigh bed with his hands raised in surrender. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of blue-and-white striped boxers with the Ralph Lauren pony logo at the bottom in red. It’s a whole lot of bare skin and muscle to take in first thing in the morning.

  “Why are you in my room?” I ask irritably, pressing my fingers against my temples, which are pounding so hard it sounds like there’s a drum circle going on in my head.

  “I tried knocking on your door to let you know the big breakfast spread you asked room service to deliver at eight was here, but you were in a tequila coma and didn’t hear me.”

  Tequila coma? I only had the one margarita at dinner, right? And I’m sure I didn’t drink the whole thing although the evening does get kind of fuzzy sometime around the flan.

  “The alcohol in that margarita must have packed a real wallop.” My mouth is so dry I feel like my tongue is sticking to the roof of it when I speak and I swear I can still taste the garlic and onion from my dinner. Ew, did I forget to brush my teeth before going to bed?

  “Yeah, well, that drink was huge, then you did those shots of mezcal at the tequila bar later.”

  “Tequila bar? How did we end up there? And why the hell did you let me drink mezcal? That stuff is like eighty proof and you know what a lightweight I am!” I grimace in pain at the shrieky sound of my own voice.

  “Here.” Alex offers me a bottle of water I didn’t realize he was holding, then picks my purse off the floor and starts rummaging around in it. Normally, I would yell at him for touching my things, but I think my head might explode if I raise my voice again. He successfully manages to scrounge up a bottle of Advil. Taking my hand, he shakes out two caplets on my palm.

  I gratefully down both along with half a bottle of water, knowing there’s no better cure for a hangover than hydration. After I swipe the back of my hand over my wet mouth, I narrow my eyes at Alex and direct him to, “Explain the tequila bar, the mezcal, all of it.”

  He frowns. “You don’t remember insisting we go there after dinner?”

  I search my memory banks and come up with nothing. “No, and that really doesn’t sound like me. Why is the song ‘La Bamba’ playing in my head?” The last thing I need right now is an earworm!

  “There was a live band at the tequila bar and they did a pretty decent cover of the song, which you helped out with. I never knew you played the tambourine.”

  “I don’t!” I haven’t got a musical bone in my body. “Oh, geez, please tell me I didn’t sing.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Alex!” I shout, clutching my head when the sound feels like it pierces straight through my skull.

  “What? You said not to tell you if you sang, so I was honoring your request.” He smirks, clearly enjoying this.

  I take a deep breath and exhale, trying to calm myself. “So I got up in front of everyone at this tequila bar, which I’m assuming is the one here in the hotel . . .” Alex confirms this with a nod. “. . . and joined the band on stage to sing a song that’s in Spanish, a language I do not speak.”

  “Yeah.” He smiles fondly at the memory. “You totally mangled the verse, but you came in strong on the chorus and the audience loved it. They were singing along with you and the band.”

  “And you didn’t stop me from making a drunken fool of myself because . . .?”

  Alex scratches the stubble on his chin that’s a few shades darker than the hair on his head. “I figured there was no harm in you letting loose and having a good time. No one in the bar knew who you were.”

  “Thank merciful heavens for that.” I’m meeting with the GM and hotel concierge this morning and I would be mortified if word of my escapades had gotten back to them.

  “And I paid off the bellboy who saw you splashing around in the fountain outside.”

  “I did what?” Ack, there’s that screechy voice again! If there was a sock nearby, I’d happily stuff it in my mouth.

  He shrugs. “As we were leaving the bar, you said you were hot and wanted to go for a swim. I assumed you meant in the pool, but before I could tell you that that probably wasn’t the best idea in your condition, you ran off and by the time I caught up to you, you were knee-deep in that large fountain by the Mission Inn Avenue entrance to the hotel and locked in a passionate embrace with the statue of whatever water god is there in the center.”

  “This just gets worse and worse.” I can’t believe I’m so hard up that I’m canoodling with inanimate objects now!

  “Oh, I don’t know. I, for one, am a big fan of Smashed Nessa. She’s unpredictable and a lot of fun.”

  Fun? What exactly does he mean by— My eyes drop down in a panic.

  Phew, I’m still wearing my maxi dress and . . . I wiggle my bottom around and confirm that yes, my panties are right where they’re supposed to be, so there was no hooking up with my ex last night. Not that I think Alex would have taken advantage of me while I was in an inebriated state, but I have been known to get amorous when I’m under the influence (see the aforementioned statue) and if I’d thrown myself at him, there’d be no coming back from that. I’d have to adopt my Véronique Le Coeur persona permanently and leave the country in disgrace, possibly moving to a small village in France and opening my own franchise of Monsieur Henri’s where I’d eat truffles all day and eventually have to change my surname to Le Cochon—the pig.

  “Fun’s over,” I declare. “We’ve got a busy day today
, starting with my meeting at nine, so . . .” Sliding over to the edge of the bed, I put my feet down on the carpeted floor. “. . . I’m going to take a shower and make myself—whoa!” I lurch forward after standing up too fast and getting lightheaded, but Alex is there to catch me.

  I flatten my palms against his bare chest, which is dusted with the perfect amount of hair. His skin feels deliciously warm beneath my fingertips and I just want to snuggle in close, lay my head down, and fall back asleep, listening to the sound of his breathing.

  “You all right?” he asks, frowning at me with concern in his blue-gray eyes.

  “Yeah, sorry, just a little woozy. I’m fine now,” I assure him before dropping my hands and stepping back to put some much-needed space between us.

  “You should probably ease your way into things this morning. Why don’t you come out to the patio and have breakfast with me before attempting the shower?”

  “I don’t think I can face all that food.” In fact, the thought of all those rich and/or sweet breakfast dishes makes my stomach threaten to revolt.

  “The plates all have covers, so you won’t be grossed out by any smells. I think a strong cup of coffee and a few pieces of dry toast will do you a world of a good.”

  Much as I hate to admit it, he’s right.

  “Okay, but I have got to brush my teeth first and do something with this . . . mop.” I drag my fingers through more errant curls that have fallen down in my face and they get stuck, which is a bad sign. The humid air rising up from the water in that fountain last night seems to have kinked up my hair something fierce. I’m going to need a gallon of heavy-duty conditioner and some quality time with a blow dryer if I don’t want to leave this suite looking like Little Orphan Annie today.

  “You might want to address that mascara situation . . .” He points at my eye area and twirls his finger around. “. . . while you’re at it. You’ve got a Heath Ledger as the Joker thing going on.”

  “I didn’t wash off my makeup before going to bed either?” I slap my hands on both sides of my face and sure enough, it feels all sticky and gross. “Viv would be so disappointed in me.” When I was growing up, she never lectured me on not doing drugs or being sure to have safe sex. The only thing she drilled into my head on a daily basis was: Don’t ever sleep with your makeup on because it will ruin your skin.

  “You couldn’t. After I pulled you out of the fountain, I carried you upstairs and by the time I got you to the suite, you’d passed out. I figured it was best to just let you sleep it off, so I dumped you on the bed.”

  It’s kind of sweet that Alex took such good care of me when I was three sheets—okay, more like four or five—to the wind, which means I owe him a thank you. Ugh.

  Stiffening my spine, I say, “My behavior last night was both unprofessional and embarrassing and I am hereby swearing off all hard liquor. I’d like you to know that I appreciate . . .” It takes some effort to squeeze out that word. “. . . you looking out for me and getting me back here safely.”

  “Ooooo, ouch!” A grinning Alex places a hand on top of his naked pec. “That was really painful for you, wasn’t it? Having to admit I’m a decent guy who has your best interests at heart instead of the selfish jerk you like to imagine I am.”

  “Since you’re already back to acting like an ass, I’m confident your gallantry last night was a one-off. I’ll meet you out on the patio in ten.” Turning on my heel, I stalk toward the deluxe bathroom on the other side of the bed. “And put on some damn clothes,” I toss back crankily over my shoulder.

  Alex’s amused chuckle follows me into the bathroom.

  * * *

  After I get some fresh air while eating the breakfast prescribed by Alex and take a nice, hot shower, I’m feeling almost human and don’t have to fake being personable when I meet with Mr. Masters and the inn’s concierge, Vincent. We review my special requests for Jax and Jaz’s stay at the hotel, and they make some suggestions of their own. Alex has questions about security and privacy for our A-list duo, and I listen avidly as these will be things I’ll have to think about in the future if I add more celebrities to Straight from the Hart’s client list. Fingers crossed!

  We are then handed over to Lucy, a docent from the Mission Inn Foundation and Museum who’s been tasked with taking us on a tour of the property, starting with the hotel’s interior. I make copious notes on my phone as we’re treated to stories about the many movies, TV shows, and music videos that have been filmed here as well as the famous people who’ve stayed at the inn, including author Anne Rice. Her novel, Angel Time, was inspired by the time she spent in the Amistad Suite, which has this incredible mural of a treeline meeting a vast blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds on the domed ceiling over its bed. I stand beneath the mural gaping in awe at is grandeur and artistry for a solid five minutes.

  We also visit the room on the fourth floor that is purportedly haunted by the original owner’s sister who’s commonly referred to as Aunt Alice. I don’t feel the touch of a ghostly hand while we’re in the room, but I do pass a spot by the foot of the bed that’s so unnaturally cold it makes the hair on my arms stand straight up. If I was holding one of those EMF detectors the guys on paranormal investigation shows use, I know it would be beeping like crazy! We move on to the Bridal Honeymoon Suite across the hall where guests claim to have been pushed while descending the spiral staircase from the second level.

  “Some bride must have had a very disappointing wedding night,” I murmur my guess as to the reason for the original shove and why the phantom has felt compelled to continue doing it all these years, and Alex snickers.

  Being the history geek he is, Alex is delighted when the docent regales us with a slew of facts and details about the building of the inn and its architecture, where the different pieces of artwork and various collectibles found in the hotel originated, and finally, the Famous Fliers’ Wall where 140-plus copper wings are mounted in tribute to renowned aviators like Amelia Earhart and Charles Lindbergh. Although it’s fascinating stuff, I don’t think the Js will give a flying (sorry, had to do it!) crap about any of this. The only thing mentioned during this section of the tour that I think will interest my clients is that the inn is currently owned by Kelly and Duane Roberts, who celebrated their twenty-eighth anniversary this year, which is very romantic and inspirational for a young couple. Oh, and that Kelly’s daughter owns Casey’s Cupcakes, which has a boutique right here at the inn and won Cupcake Wars on Food Network several years back. I’m going to try and arrange a private cupcake decorating class for the Js as I know they’d have a blast doing that.

  Next up is the Presidential Lounge where Alex eats up more stories about the ten commanders-in-chief who’ve visited the inn. The Nixons got married here and the Reagans honeymooned in the Alhambra Suite, so that’s something, but chances are good that the Js won’t even know who either of those couples is since they’re from an entirely different era. Too bad the Obamas never stayed here! I do perk up when Lucy shows us a massive leather-and-wood chair that Frank Miller, the inn’s owner at the time, had custom-made to accommodate the girth of President Taft who often got stuck in the presidential bathtub at the White House. Legend has it that Taft was so offended by the chair he refused to sit in it. Now that’s a fun and juicy tidbit I think Jax will enjoy!

  We head outside through the door that leads to the courtyard Alex and I entered the hotel through yesterday. What we missed on the way in was the Mission Inn’s resident macaws who are housed in a large green cage in an area off to the side of that door. Lucy tells us that back in the day, Frank Miller had two pet birds—a blue-and-yellow macaw named Napoleon and the scarlet-colored Joseph. Those birds were often perched on Miller’s hand or shoulder and are now closely identified with the inn. Artwork and trinkets paying homage to the brightly-colored macaws are all over the property.

  “Looking good, Red,” Napoleon II, the blue-and-yellow bird—no relation to the original, he just looks like him—squawks when he sees me,
and my eyes widen.

  With a smile, Lucy explains, “One of the handlers who works with the macaws is a ginger. She taught Napoleon to greet her like that. He must think you’re her.”

  “Bye-bye,” Joseph II, who is a female according to Lucy, says. “Bye-bye.”

  Alex chortles. “She thinks you’re trying to steal her man and wants you to leave.”

  “It’s okay, Joseph. I already have a boyfriend. Promise. She really is beautiful,” I muse, taking a step closer and holding my hand out as a friendly overture to the bird.

  “Careful!” Lucy cautions, her arm flying up to block me just as the macaw screeches and sticks its beak through the bars of the cage, trying to peck me.

  “These birds can bite if they feel threatened by someone they don’t know,” the docent explains. “Supposedly, the first Joseph chomped down on one of Albert Einstein’s fingers.”

  “He was probably as confused by the theory of relativity as I was back in school,” Alex jokes.

  I type a quick note on my phone to tell Jax not to stick his hand or face, aka the moneymaker, anywhere near that birdcage. Yikes!

  Lucy leads us through the courtyard, telling us how it’s lit up with red, white, and pink fairy lights and called “Lovers’ Lane” during the inn’s annual Festa dell’Amore in February, which sounds super dreamy and romantic. I’m sorry that Jax and Jaz won’t get to experience that. I suppose I could ask the hotel to pull all of those lights out of storage and string them up for the Js, but that might be excessive.

  Stopping when we’re under the archway that serves as an entry point to the hotel, Lucy says, “It’s tradition for couples to kiss under the arch of the bell tower, or campanario. And it’s a fun way for people to commemorate their visit here and become a part of the inn’s romantic history. Here, let me take a picture of the two of you.” She reaches her hand out for my phone.