Crush On You

by Wilde, Amelia

  “Such threats,” Beau says, then takes another sip of his drink. He doesn’t speak until he’s leaned back against the padded surface of the lounge chair and closed his eyes. “She had a great reference from her previous employer.”

  Now I wish I had my own drink. “This person was so good that their previous employer found it more beneficial to let her go? That doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”

  “It’s not like that. She’s freelancing.” Beau raises his free hand and runs it through his hair. When he’s done, it seems to have made no difference at all. “It’s perfect, actually. We need someone who’s available quickly because I can’t listen to you bitch and moan about this for another day of my life.”

  “I mentioned it at one dinner—”

  “—and we need someone who knows the area.”

  “Knows the area?” Jerry comes around to the side of the pool where we’re stationed. I don’t care what he hears—he’s been here at least ten years. But I am genuinely confused about why Beau thinks this. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Beau waves a hand above himself, indicating the space all around us. “The resort is in the area. We can’t just sell the resort amenities. We need to sell...you know, the area.”

  “I’m not interested in selling Ruby Bay.”

  My brother sits up and looks at me. “For the guy who’s supposed to be in charge of everything, you’re being really stupid.”

  “I’m not the one drinking a foot-long mimosa at nine a.m.”

  He scoffs. “When else would you drink a foot-long mimosa?” He looks so indignant that I have to laugh. “Seriously. You’re being a dumbass. Dad was all over the city council, planning social engagements that the resort could be part of.”

  “That’s not what he was doing. He took meetings with city council whenever...” My own sentence runs out of steam.

  “There it is,” Beau says.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  He shrugs. “If that’s what you want, my liege.”

  I’m remembering them now, the things my dad would plan. A booth at the town’s three art fairs. An entry in the cooking contests they held at the festivals. Discounts for...for what? I’m drawing a complete blank, and there’s not much to fill the gaps. My dad had a lot of his old records stored in a little shed out behind the family residence, one of the biggest homes on the club side. It burned down five years ago.

  “Shit.”

  “You can thank me whenever you’re ready.” Beau swings his legs over the side of the lounge chair and faces me.

  It’s worse than I thought, if I can’t remember simple things like what Beau is talking about.

  Like what Beau is talking about.

  “Wait. Why haven’t you been doing this kind of outreach?”

  He points to his chest. “Me? You didn’t command it, your honor.”

  “That’s—” I flop back on the lounge chair, giving up my hold on professionalism. “Do that kind of outreach, Beau. You can get started this morning, since you’re up.”

  “Can’t do it. I have a date with—” He checks his watch. “—bed. In fact, I’d better be—”

  I pop back up off the chair. “No way. Who did you hire?”

  He laughs. “You’re never going to believe who it is.”

  “Who?”

  “Genevieve Starlight.”

  I was wrong before. This is how I die. “You are absolutely fucking with me right now, and it’s verging on cruelty.”

  “I’m not. Not in the least. She’s going by a new name now. Jenny London. Totally reinvented herself.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  There’s simply no way that Genevieve Starlight has transformed into the kind of person who can help me save my family’s resort.

  “You’ll believe it when you see it.” Beau stands up, yawning. “I have to get some sleep.”

  I stand alongside him. “You have to get a brain. You know this means I have to fire that poor girl, don’t you?” There’s no way. There’s just no way that I can keep her on, if she’s anything like what I remember from high school.

  Beau stabs a finger in my direction. “You know this means you have to give her a chance.”

  “That kind of thinking will run this place into the ground.”

  “Or save it.” Beau holds up both hands, and in the process spills a bit of his drink onto the tile. “Guess we’ll find out.”

  3

  Jenny

  I’m not the kind of girl who hides behind indoor plants anymore.

  I’m honestly not. In fact, I’ve progressed to corporate…what? Espionage? Sabotage? Dwelling on it too deeply makes me a little ill, so I won’t. I won’t take it that far, anyway. I won’t need to. It all became clear the moment Connor sent me the hiring paperwork. It’s not about making Bliss Resort look bad—just average. He’s got a team of people at Global optimizing every new social media trend as it happens, so he can make whoever the competing client is look like a million dollars.

  What I need to focus on is that the signing bonus from Connor was just enough to rent a moving company to take my stuff to a Ruby Bay storage unit at the last minute, get myself here, and make some credit card payments.

  So no, I’m not that girl anymore.

  But the Bliss Resort has a towering ficus that’s perfect to lurk behind while I plan my next move. I’ll only be here for a moment so I can catch my breath and compose myself into the grown-woman version of me. The version of me who swore on the drive to Ruby Bay that not only am I going to work for Roman Bliss, I’m also going to show him exactly what he’s been missing out on.

  I do have one critique for him already, and it has to do with parking instructions. The man is already throwing out stumbling blocks, but I will not be stumbled.

  All the hiring materials tell you is where to park—in the employee lot behind the main resort building—but they’re not particularly clear about where its offices are. From behind the ficus I can see one sign with an arrow—OFFICES—but I’m not sure where it goes, or whether I’m supposed to walk right past the front desk, or anything else.

  Be professional. That’s the first rule of this job, and it’s especially the first rule for today. For professionalism is the key to attractiveness. A guy like Roman Bliss is only going to be into me if I can get on his level—which, as I recall from school, was a million miles above everyone else. And I knew I’d never get there unless I reshaped myself into someone new.

  And now I’m teetering on the brink of falling right back down to where I was if I fail this assignment and he sees the part of me cowering in my high heels.

  Not a chance, not a chance, not a chance. I am no longer Genevieve Starlight, second-lowest on the social ladder at all of Ruby Bay High. I am Jenny London, social media queen and definite professional who can absolutely, one-hundred-percent handle working for Roman Bliss, and more.

  Behind the ficus tree I straighten my back, hike my purse up on my shoulder, and arrange my face into the warm, confident half-smile that graces each and every one of the YouTube videos I’ve made to shore up my business.

  Yes. Confidence. This is what it’s all about. I will enter this day with confidence, with grace, and a big step out from behind the ficus—

  And directly into a bellboy carrying a tray of champagne glasses.

  His facial expression metamorphoses from neutrally welcoming to a flash of irritation to oh, fuck me all in the space of an instant, and while I’m watching the display of human facial acrobatics in action, the champagne glasses do a different kind of acrobatics. They leap gracefully from the tray and swan dive toward the floor. Two of them have their fall broken by my boobs.

  In my white dress shirt.

  Glass breaking on tile snaps me out of this momentary fixation and back to the present.

  “Oh, ma’am, I am so sorry—” The bellboy whips a white cloth off his arm and thrusts it toward me. His face does another hectic sprint through horror and yik
es and boobs before he realizes that he should not, in fact, dab at my boobs with his cloth and hands it to me instead.

  “It’s fine.” It’s not fine. “It’s completely fine. I’ll—”

  I’ll just stand here and short-circuit, that’s what I’ll do. I’m supposed to be meeting Roman Bliss in his offices in ten minutes, and now I look like I’m competing in the Bliss Resort’s first-ever champagne wet t-shirt contest.

  All the work I’ve done flies straight out of my brain and into the puddle of champagne at my feet. I’ve prepared for a number of different scenarios, and this was not one of them. The Tide pen in my purse isn’t going to dry champagne in ten minutes. A hand-dryer in a bathroom might, but I’d have to count on them having one, and knowing where the bathroom is. I spin on one heel, squeaking my way a full three hundred and sixty degrees, but I don’t see the bathroom that I know must be here.

  When I complete my revolution my stomach lurches.

  In fact, I don’t have ten minutes.

  In fact, I’ve completely run out of time.

  Because here comes Roman Bliss.

  He strides across the lobby with a look of mild consternation on his face.

  I might as well be standing in the hallway outside art class again, knowing he’s about to come out of world literature, cheeks burning even though a guy like Roman would never bother to see a girl like me. I feel exactly that hot and bothered at the sight of him—at the sight of his tall, muscled frame, at the sight of those Bliss blue eyes, at the styled dark hair that’s never once looked dorky, unlike me, unlike everything about me—

  Oh, God, stop. This is finally my chance to one-up him. I can’t melt into myself.

  I’m rooted to the spot. This time, we’re not in high school and he’s staring right at me. He has seen me in all my terrible disarray, and this is not how I wanted to—

  For some reason, all I can think to do is to tug my shirt out of my pencil skirt so it’s not tucked in anymore. The moment it comes free my brain explodes in a shrieking chorus of what the hell are you doing???? and I have no idea. What was I thinking? Was I going to tie it up in a little knot like a pre-transformation Britney Spears? No. And now I’m standing here with an untucked shirt, with big round spills of champagne making the white very nearly transparent, and Roman Bliss.

  He comes to a stop at an intimate distance, which I immediately realize is to shield me from the rest of the lobby, and looks down at the bellboy. “Get a key to the corner suite on three. Don’t just stand there—we also need someone to clean this up. Can’t have any guests tripping.”

  Greg the Bellboy takes these orders like a soldier in the field and hustles off. Suite? Three?

  Then Roman’s eyes are on mine, and there’s a flash of surprise in his gaze, one that fills his eyes and cascades over the rest of his face. He blinks, like he was expecting to see something else entirely. “Genevieve.”

  A second ago I thought I might burst into flame, but hearing that name is like being submerged in ice water. I draw myself up to my full height, transparent shirt be damned. “It’s Jenny. Jenny London.”

  “I can’t believe—” He snaps his mouth shut and I feel a little thrill of pleasure. “Let me take you upstairs to one of our suites. You can take a moment before we meet. His voice is still as smooth as it was back then, only deeper and more manly and a thousand times hotter than I’d anticipated. “Greg will be right back with a key.”

  “A whole suite?” I try to be dismissive, but my voice isn’t quite cooperating. “That won’t be necessary. I can just—” Just what? Sit across from him like this? That’s no way to get his attention.

  On the other hand….

  “It’s the least I can do.” Then Roman takes me by the arm and ushers me across the lobby like I’m a visiting dignitary and not his newest employee, and I…

  …am useless.

  “I’m assuming you’ve brought some things with you, yes? For employees on your level we of course provide living space at the resort.”

  “I—yes.” Damn it. I want to be smooth. Cool. Collected. But the mere fact of him touching me has scrambled my brain.

  We turn left, into another wide hallway with a crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and take another turn. The elevators.

  Roman punches the call button at the same moment that Greg jogs up with a little black envelope that I’m assuming holds the key card to the suite on three.

  “Thanks,” Roman says crisply, pocketing the card. “Get some people together. When we’re finished meeting, Ms. London will need help moving her belongings into her residence.”

  Before I can protest—and I will protest because the crap I’ve shoved into the back of the rental car does not need to be viewed by other humans—the elevator doors close.

  And then I’m in the elevator, alone with Roman Bliss.

  It whisks us upward as I try my best not to have a heart attack. Be professional, I remind myself. Be cool. This is rule number one. I stand up tall and face him. “This is too much. I’ll just need a minute to dry off, and then—”

  “Take all the time you need,” he assures me, his hand coming around to the small of my back as the elevator doors open.

  Why can’t I resist the gentle pressure on my back? It’s so chivalrous, the way he’s guiding me. Totally unassuming. Gentlemanly. It’s a far cry from the cocky jock he was back in school and I cannot take it.

  He guides me down the hall to the last door on the right and holds the envelope in front of the lock as he flashes me a smile that makes me feel lightheaded and pleased. “Upgraded last year, for the convenience of our guests. No need to insert anything.”

  Roman opens the door and gestures for me to step inside.

  And so help me, I do.

  “I’ll see you in my office,” he says, and for a moment I’m sure—I see something else in his eyes. Something bewildered, but also…hot. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  4

  Roman

  I need to find Beau and either punch him or give him a raise, because I’ll be damned.

  He was right about Genevieve Starlight.

  Jenny London is nothing like her.

  The girl I used to know in high school mainly dressed in earth tones in styles that looked like made-over things from the 1970s. I have no problem with vintage clothes or the color brown, but she always wore them and she always looked pissed.

  I’d catch her staring.

  To be fair, I was worth looking at. When I was a senior and she was a freshman, I was in my high school prime and thought I was pretty hot shit. And I was, in the only way that high school boys can be—I played basketball and I was good at it.

  She hated me.

  It’s not like I caught her mooning over me. I caught her looking at me with narrowed eyes, her expression like she’d just remembered something unpleasant, like a dentist appointment or a chemistry test.

  Nobody was more shocked than I was to get an invitation to her open house. She invited all of us. All six brothers. But it was addressed to Roman + Brothers, so I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions about that.

  This is insane.

  I stalk back to the elevator and replay the entire thing in my head. There was not one single moment when I let my gaze linger on her wet shirt. It was only a passing glance, really, while I came across the lobby. That’s the only reason I’m so intimately acquainted with the outline of her bra underneath the shirt. And the fact that it’s a fairly sheer bra.

  In the elevator I press the button for the lobby and lean casually against the railing on the back wall, pretending to be deep in thought when in fact I’m waging war on the erection that’s threatening to become very visible if I don’t get things under control.

  Check that—it is visible.

  Over Jenny London.

  I think of everything other than the champagne spill on the front of her shirt.

  My grandmother carving Thanksgiving turkey. The national anthem. Disney Wor
ld.

  By the time the doors open on the main floor, I have myself under control. At least as much as I’m going to.

  Greg, our newest hire for the lobby staff, hovers nervously by the desk. I give him an encouraging wave. “Good work.” He’s already gotten himself a fresh towel and a new tray to circulate. Steve, the maintenance man, is mopping up the spill by the ficus. The grand lobby of our main building, with its soaring ceilings and fresh white paint, is almost restored.

  I take a deep inhale and relax my shoulders. Jenny London is my new social media manager, and now I’ve seen straight through her shirt. And fuck, I liked what I saw.

  I have to shake it off.

  While I survey the lobby, I take stock of how everything looks. How everything feels. The air feels just the right temperature to me. It’s an unseasonably hot June week for Ruby Bay, but I didn’t want to go overboard on the air conditioning. Steve finishes mopping and hustles his gear out of sight. Low steel drum music wafts across the room.

  It’s all perfect.

  Except for the fact that Jenny London is upstairs in one of our best suites. I have no idea what I was thinking, offering her that room. Something came over me when I saw her standing there, dripping champagne in the lobby. Some animal instinct. Get a room. Not that the room’s going to help her much unless she goes for dry clothes.

  Or not. She’s more resourceful than I ever gave her credit for. She’s been out of school for what, six years? Seven? And in that time….

  I’m hit with a wave of regret. I was such a prick back then. Clothes don’t make the person. I should have known that. And now, going back over all those memories…was it something else behind her eyes?

  The more pressing question is…what was she thinking just now, when she stepped into that hotel room?

  Was she thinking of me when she peeled that wet shirt away from her skin?

  Did she bite her lip as she lifted her bra from her breasts and—