by Susan Hatler
“Wonderful.” We stepped into the kitchen and I triple-checked everything. The island had already been arranged with the afternoon’s refreshments. We had the meals catered, and the refrigerator stocked with snacks and such. After a quick perusal of the spread, I breathed a sigh of relief and stared out the window to the empty shoreline. “I’ll be in the room down the hall. You’ll have the one next to mine.”
“Uh. . . Won’t we be sharing a room?” Janine asked, catching me off guard. She sounded so keen to be participating in this whole event. “That way we’d receive the full effect of the retreat in addition to working, just like you mentioned on the phone.”
“Oh, we can . . .” I’d been looking forward to having some time to myself, since being on call twenty-four hours a day for the next two weeks felt daunting. Plus, Janine’s high energy was already wearing me out. Her brown eyes rounded and I would’ve felt bad saying no. “Yes, let’s definitely share a room. The one at the end of the hall has two double beds. Let’s put our bags in there so they’re out of the way when Greta arrives.”
“I’ll take your suitcase.” Janine clapped her hands, then snatched away my bag before I could say anything. I watched as she disappeared down the hall. She seemed like a really sweet woman, but her previous word kept circling my brain: meltdown.
I couldn’t afford a meltdown from anyone. I checked my cell. No messages from Greta or any of the guests. That was good since they’d be arriving at any moment. When Janine came back to the kitchen, I gestured to the island. “So, the first thing we’ll offer the ladies once they arrive is a light snack and a mango mimosa. Greta ordered the mimosas specifically, so they must be her favorite. After everyone unpacks, we’ll have a barbeque on the back terrace, then a volleyball match down on the private beach. We’ll make a bonfire once the sun goes down. Sounds good?”
“This sounds a lot like summer camp,” Janine said, then glanced around at the high ceilings, and expensive furnishings. She laughed. “But slightly more elegant.”
I nodded, thinking how ironic it was that I was flat broke yet staying in a mansion and talking to my assistant. Suddenly there was a high-pitched squeal of tires outside the front door. “Someone’s here. Are you ready?”
Janine nodded, her eyes slightly wide as she followed me to the front door. My chest tightened and I tried not to think about the possibility of working my entire life at The Market if I blew this retreat. No, I couldn’t think that way. I was about to meet Greta von Strand, author of Men: Who Needs Them?, and the woman I most wanted to be like.
I walked outside in time to see Greta hop out of a shiny red Porsche convertible. She slipped her large black sunglasses off and then pushed them up, resting them on top of her head. Her dark hair fell in a bob, framing her delicate face. She couldn’t be more than five-foot three, but she radiated power and confidence.
“Welcome, Greta,” I said, feeling in awe just being in her presence.
“Olivia Lane.” She used a tone as if we were the best of friends. “So wonderful to see you, darling.” She planted a kiss on both of my cheeks then pulled back and smiled radiantly. “I assume everything is set for the ladies’ arrival?”
“Absolutely,” I promised, placing a hand over my heart, which pounded against my ribs. “This is Janine, my assistant. She’ll show you to your suite. It has a magnificent view of Blue Moon Bay.”
“Excellent.” Greta nodded to Janine, then opened the trunk of her convertible which was under the front hood. She removed several designer bags, and Janine immediately grabbed one for her. “I’ll freshen up before the guests arrive.”
Greta and Janine disappeared into the house just as a long white limo pulled into the circular driveway. Excitement fluttered in my stomach and I plastered a smile on my face. It was now or never. Everything had to go perfectly. Olivia’s Occasions or bust.
“Welcome,” I trilled as the first guest stepped out of the limo, wearing designer jeans and a flashy green sweater. “I’m Olivia Lane. Hope your flight went well.”
“Hi, Olivia.” The woman stepped out of the limo and took my hand gently. “I’m Silvi Meyers, and I’m from Blue Moon Bay actually.”
“Of course,” I said, wanting to kick myself for not remembering that a few of our guests were locals. “Your hostess, Greta von Strand, is waiting for you inside. We’re going to have a fabulous two weeks.”
Several of the women greeted me or asked me questions, and I was so distracted—not to mention nervous—that I almost missed the last person to climb out of the limo. I caught sight of her out of the corner of my eye, and I did a double take. Charlie Rockwell, aka Charlie Kelly and formerly my best friend. I gaped at her, completely forgetting my position.
When she caught sight of me, she gaped back at me. She had the same sleek black hair and porcelain skin she’d had back in high school, but her almond-brown eyes no longer sparkled. Instead, they were tinged with red, and she had dark circles underneath. Even so, she was still the most beautiful woman around. She radiated a presence even Greta couldn’t match.
We hadn’t spoken since the summer after high school, nine years ago, when she’d moved to Southern California to start college with her boyfriend at her side. I had no idea how much of what I read about her in the tabloids was true, but she looked exhausted. I wanted to give her a hug, tell her I still loved her and that I wanted to kick her ex in the booty for hurting her.
Instead, I held my hand out lamely. “Welcome, Ms. Rockwell. So glad you could join us with your presence.”
What the . . .? My face heated and there were no words to describe how stupid I felt about the garbled words that had spewed from my mouth. Charlie used to sleep at my house, braid my hair, and she’d even named my car. So why was I acting like a star-struck bubblehead?
Embarrassment hit me like a beachside sandstorm. My eyes pinched.
Something flickered across Charlie’s features, but her eyes brightened momentarily as if she were trying to hold in laughter. The light in her eyes quickly faded, though, and she shook my hand. “That’s very . . . professional of you, Olivia.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, wanting to stick my head in a big, dark hole. Somehow, I managed to force the corners of my mouth in the upward direction and I hoped that passed for a polite smile. “May I show you inside?”
She tilted her head slightly, then nodded. “Sure thing.”
As we stepped into the house, I wanted to apologize for being such a moron and ask Charlie to forgive my lameness. When I’d read she’d moved back to Blue Moon Bay, I’d meant to call her, to say how sorry I was about her divorce. But I hadn’t. I’d felt awkward initiating the first move since she was a celebrity, whereas I worked in the seafood department at The Market.
Once Charlie joined the group, I excused myself to help Janine bring the mimosas and snacks to the living room. Greta was seated on a leather chair chatting with Silvi, and I approached her first. “A mango mimosa, just like you requested.”
Rather than smiling back at me, her mouth pinched tightly, and she shook her head. “Raspberry sounds better. Thanks, darling.”
I felt a rush of panic, but kept my expression even as my mind raced to what I’d stocked in the kitchen. Frozen blueberries, strawberries, and . . . yes. Raspberries, thank goodness. “I’ll fix that for you right away, Greta.” I turned to Silvi, feeling ten kinds of stupid for displeasing Greta, even though I’d done exactly what she’d asked. Man, my self-esteem needed a boost. “Would you like raspberry?”
“I’d love a mango,” she said, winking at me as she accepted the flute.
I felt a rush of warmth, as if Silvi’s wink said she knew I wasn’t a bonehead. I headed back to the kitchen. As I whipped together a raspberry mimosa, I found myself wondering if Greta was testing me. If so, then I had to meet each challenge with determined calm. I had to impress her no matter what, so I could become the premiere event planner of Blue Moon Bay—and show Piper she’d been wrong about me.
When I
returned to the living room and handed Greta her drink, she asked me to tell the guests about the evening’s activities. I smiled and turned to the ladies, who were chatting and getting to know each other.
“Welcome, everyone,” I called out, getting everyone’s attention. “Why don’t you all relax and unpack, then we’ll have a barbeque out on the terrace. After dinner, we’ll have a volleyball match on the beach.”
A tall, slender woman named Amy raised her hand. “Would it be all right if we just lounged on the beach right now? I could really use some sun after being in an airplane all day.”
I was about to answer when Greta interjected. “Of course you can. That’s why we have a private beach.” She paused and looked at me pointedly. “Make an effort to bond with each other, ladies. Section three, ‘Focus on Friendships.’ An independent woman includes a healthy assortment of gal pals who have her back. So relax and have fun. Olivia’s promised we won’t see any men for the next two weeks. Not even a gardener.”
My head swiveled in her direction. Uh, when had I made that promise? Whatever. Not like avoiding men should be a problem when we’d mostly be at the mansion. Plus, the beach was privately owned by the HOA. I’d checked only half an hour before. There hadn’t been a soul in sight.
“Shall we, ladies?” I gestured toward the French doors that led outdoors. With everyone following me, I led them out to the terrace that overlooked the private beach and the bay. I gazed out at the sparkling ocean, breathed in the fresh air, felt the sun’s heat pulse against my cheeks, and allowed myself to relax into the retreat.
The sounds of raucous laughter wafted up to the terrace. My heart rate kicked up a step as I peered down at the beach. My mouth fell open. Our private volleyball court on the sand was currently occupied. By a group of men, all of them bare chested. Oh, no! It was like the freaking volleyball scene from Top Gun down there. Where had they come from?
Before I could even process the shocked look on Greta’s face, Janine appeared suddenly at my side, and my eyes zeroed in on the man serving the ball. He had blond hair and the chiseled physique of a Greek statue. His height gave him a distinct advantage in the game. And even though all those things seemed familiar to me, it wasn’t until he called out to a guy who was sitting on a lounge chair and sipping a blue drink, “Bottoms up!” that I knew for sure it was him.
Invading my women’s retreat was the hot bartender from Scotty’s, Brody Mitchell. “Janine, please make me one of those mimosas,” I murmured, trying to contain my meltdown. “Hold the mango.”
Chapter Three
The women at the retreat didn’t seem upset in the least at seeing shirtless muscular men playing volleyball on the beach below, but Greta’s face had turned bright red beneath her carefully applied makeup. My mind reeled on how to fix this problem fast. If I didn’t, my dreams of becoming a strong, successful woman like Greta would go up in flames.
“How could this happen?” Greta whispered near my ear. Her voice was tight as she gestured to the athletic men who unknowingly might be the catalyst of my professional demise. “This beach is private property.”
I leaned close to her so the others wouldn’t hear. “Technically, the beach belongs to all of the homes along the bluffs. The guys must be owners, or friends of one of the homeowners.”
As if to prove my words, one team of guys cheered—apparently having won the game—then as a group, they jogged toward a set of stairs that led up to the house right next door. Great. No chance they could’ve been visiting someone down the corner? And out of sight?
Greta whipped her head around and glared at me with narrowed eyes. “The whole premise of this retreat is to bond with women, Olivia. You knew that when I hired you. I don’t want these men around for the next two weeks. Do you hear me?”
Um, did she really think I had the power to kick people out of their houses? What kind of magic power did she think I possessed? I had to calm her down quickly though. If she were a cartoon character, there would seriously be steam blowing out her ears right now.
I touched her arm, using a soothing tone. “I understand your concern, Greta. But I’m not sure I can legally make them leave . . .”
“Just fix this,” she said, her tone frostier than the proverbial snowman. Gulp.
“Let me see what I can do,” I said, as my career as a premiere event planner began to evaporate before my eyes. I found Janine and asked her to take the guests down to the beach while I go next door to somehow convince these men to evict themselves for the next two weeks. Nothing like insulting your neighbors when they’re hosting a party.
With my head held high, I trudged across the manicured lawn alongside the house, my heels sinking into the soft earth. Then I let myself through the gate and hurried to the neighbor’s house, trying to think of a polite way to ask them to take a hike. Nothing was coming to mind.
I rang the bell, shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide how I could possibly remedy this situation. Greta was being more than a little unreasonable, but unless I wanted the scent of seafood on my skin for the next twenty years, making her wishes come true was my only option.
The door swung open, and a flicker of surprise registered across Brody Mitchell’s handsome features. He recovered quickly, crossing his arms over his still-bare muscular chest. Oh, my. He looked good as he opened his mouth. “I’m pretty sure stalking is illegal in the state of California. If you wanted to go out with me this badly, you should’ve just said yes in the first place.”
I rolled my eyes. “You have an ego the size of this house.”
Instead of being insulted, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a very sexy way. “I’ve been told that a time or two.” He leaned against the doorjamb, giving me a much closer view of his toned chest and ripped abs. Oh, hotness. “But, then again, what am I supposed to think when a lovely lady like yourself shows up at my door?” he asked, using an innocent tone.
My belly fluttered uncontrollably. I had to remind myself I was here for work, not to flirt with the hot guy next door. “This is your house?”
He nodded. “Surprised a bartender owns a home like this? I hope that’s not snobbery I hear.”
I cleared my throat. “This isn’t a social call, Brody. My client is hosting a women’s retreat next door and she’d really appreciate it if you and your friends could keep any intrusions minimal to nonexistent.”
His right brow lifted, and he gave me a sexy side-glance. “Aren’t you even going to say it’s nice to see me again?”
Oh, it was nice all right. Nice and distracting. Just like I read about in Greta’s book. One look at an attractive guy and most women forget to be their own person with their own goals. Then the guy moves on to someone else, breaking her heart in two.
Well, that sure wasn’t going to be me this time.
“That sexy look may work on other women, but I’m completely focused on my work and will not be distracted,” I said, poking my finger at him, and accidentally touching his hard chest. Oops.
His smile merely increased. “You think I’m sexy. I knew it.”
“No, I . . .” Ugh, I had said he was sexy, but it’s not like I’d meant it as a compliment. This guy was driving me nuts. Or my body’s “high-school crush” response to his sexy bod, sweet eyes, and genuine smile was driving me nuts. Either way, I needed to focus. “Look, I’m in a real bind here, and I don’t have time for games. I promised my boss there would be no men around for our two-week retreat to distract the women and here you are walking around without a shirt on. Can you and your friends please just try to stay covered? And maybe in the house if it’s not too much trouble? Otherwise, I’m going to get fired.”
His face sobered and he ran a hand through his golden hair. “I’m sorry if our being here is making a problem for you. As much as I’d like to make you happy, I can’t promise what these guys will or won’t do over the next two weeks while we’re here. It’s nice to see you again, though. That dinner invitation is still open if you change your m
ind.”
An electric jolt hit my belly. “What do you mean by the next two weeks?”
“We’ll be here two weeks.” He moved toward me, put his hand on my shoulder, and leaned toward my ear. “I guess you could say we’re having a retreat of our own. A bunch of co-workers hanging out at the beach together. We don’t mind having women staying next door, though,” he said, patting my shoulder.
My head swam, and I didn’t like the electric tingles that shot through my shoulder from his gentle touch. The fact remained that this gorgeous, arrogant guy was going to get me fired. “Just so we’re clear, I have zero interest in having dinner with you. If we run into each other again, which I really hope doesn’t happen, please stop asking me out. It’s never going to happen.”
He chuckled. “You seem a little tense. How about a walk down on the beach with me?”
I rolled my eyes. “Is everything a joke to you? Obviously, I’m not going to the beach or anywhere with you. If Greta saw us together . . .” I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. “Are you really here for two weeks? Or were you just trying to get a rise out of me?”
His face sobered, and all the humor that had been there, deepened into a soft sadness. “Yes, I was serious. We’re down from San Felipe. We . . . we lost one of our own last year, and we’re here to get away together. My uncle offered us his beach house. That’s all.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling a rush of sympathy for him, and I felt bad for freaking out. It was sad that they’d lost one of their bartenders, and it sounded like they were really close. If he was from San Felipe, though, why had he been tending bar down at Scotty’s? The question danced in my brain, taunting me. I didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t keep my curiosity on a leash any longer. “What’s the long story behind Scotty’s? Why were you bartending there?”