Crush On You

by Wilde, Amelia

  She takes a few more steps into the room, and I follow her gaze as she takes it all in. It really is something—the candles, the soft classical music playing from built-in speakers, and the table.

  The room itself is done in white, everything pristine, but the table set for two in front of the balcony doors is the centerpiece. Low candles burn in the middle, and it’s decorated with two long-stemmed roses, resting gently on the tablecloth.

  “Wow,” Jenny breathes softly, and for a moment she seems smaller, overwhelmed. Then she draws herself up to her full height, and the girl I used to overlook in the high school hallways is gone. “How long do I have?”

  “All night.”

  That punches through her professionalism. “All night?”

  “I wasn’t kidding when I said I wanted to show you the best.”

  She shakes her head, looking truly uncomfortable for the first time. “Roman, you don’t have to—I mean, Mr. Bliss....”

  “Roman.”

  A deep flush comes to her cheeks, highlighted by the sunset rays cascading in through the open curtains. “Roman,” she repeats, her voice low. “This room must cost a fortune. There’s no need to toss out a booking—”

  “You think of everything, don’t you?” I don’t dare laugh at her. “There was no booking. Or it was my booking. Either way, you don’t need to worry about that. I want you to enjoy this the way a guest would.”

  The corner of her mouth curves upward, tugging at something behind my rib cage. “A single guest in this room?” Jenny raises her eyebrows at me, then lifts the camera to her eye and turns away. She snaps a few shots of the table and its immaculate place settings, then leans in to capture the details.

  “You won’t be alone.”

  It’s a risk to say it out loud. It’s a risk to even suggest it, even put the hint into the air between us. But to hell with tiptoeing around her.

  Jenny goes still. “I won’t?”

  Hedge. I have to hedge, obscure the want that’s beating hard in my heart. “How could I give you the official tour if I left you up here by yourself?”

  She shrugs, flips through the photos on the camera’s screen, not looking at me. “You couldn’t, I guess.”

  “That’s right.” Looking at her for this long, in this room, is painful. She changed out of the slacks and blouse she wore at the office today into a black sleeveless dress that verges on sin, the way it hugs her body. I go over to the window so I have a chance to discreetly adjust myself and think of England. “Let me know when you’re done with the first round, and we’ll get started on dinner.”

  “You planned dinner?”

  “This package comes with a staffed dinner.”

  I hear her quick intake of breath, and the giddy excitement in the air is unmistakable. But when I turn back toward her, Jenny’s face is neutral, focused on taking more photographs. She moves around the suite, bending down to get different angles and nearly giving me a heart attack. I take her through the guest room, then into the master bedroom. We don’t do rose petals at Bliss. We do a single long-stemmed rose on the king-sized pillow in the center of the arrangement. Jenny bites her lip when she sees it.

  I want to be biting that lip.

  “It’s really gorgeous,” she says. “It would be such a shame to mess it up.”

  “Hardly,” I say as she raises the camera to get another shot. Everything is suffused with golden sunlight, a ray coming down directly on the rose as if the scene is being directed by some divine hand. I’d say I had nothing to do with it, but that’s a lie. I had everything to do with it. What kind of person in my position has no idea when the lighting in the rooms is best?

  Jenny lowers the camera, then steps toward the bed. She considers it for a long moment, then reaches down and brushes the back of her knuckles against the fabric. I know instantly that she’s the type who, given the suite, would choose the guest room. It would be a damn shame. This bed almost deserves her.

  “It’s really nice.” Her voice is different, almost reverent, and with a pang another realization washes over me, mortifying in its simplicity. I have no idea what it was like at home for Genevieve Starlight. Watching her touch the comforter like that—

  She turns back, lips slightly parted, dark hair cascading over her shoulders....

  A knock sounds at the door and the moment breaks, her eyes slipping away from mine. She holds the camera a little bit closer to her body, an oddly defensive motion.

  “That’s dinner.” I reach out a hand, extending it into the air between us, and Jenny blushes radiantly before she extends her own and takes mine.

  I lead her back out into the main room as the wait staff come through the door. The lead waiter hustles in so he can be there in time to pull out Jenny’s chair for her, then mine for me. She doesn’t need to know that this is a bit of theater, just for her. Most packages only include one staff member.

  Jenny beams down at the table, her eyes traveling carefully over the place settings as she unfolds her napkin and tucks it down onto her lap. The waiter, Horatio, pours a glass of champagne for each of us, and I settle in to the feeling of finally having the upper hand.

  It’s been a long five days.

  Then Jenny picks up her champagne flute and takes a sip.

  Her eyes come up to meet mine, sensual and bright, and that grin....

  Maybe I don’t have the upper hand after all.

  11

  Jenny

  This is a dream come true.

  Sitting across the table from Roman Bliss, the champagne glass cool beneath my fingers, with him looking at me that way? I can’t possibly be awake.

  I got him here. I did that. All the years of work, all the binders, all the research…it worked. I can’t believe it.

  As giddy as I feel, I can’t shake the creepy feeling that I have misjudged this situation horribly. All the flirting, the way it felt when he touched me—how can I trust myself to know if he’s just playing games with me?

  I take another long sip of champagne and set the glass back onto the table. He is playing games with me. That’s what I need to remember. And I’m playing games with him, because I can.

  The waiter steps back to the table with the salad course. It’s a simple chicken salad, but everything about it is so fresh and wonderful that I stand up and take a few pictures. Roman seems satisfied with himself.

  I take another moment when I sit down to appreciate the chilled bowl. Masterful.

  He lets me get through half of it before he leans back in his chair, considering me. “So, Jenny London.” The name still sounds strange coming from his mouth. “What brings you back to Ruby Bay?”

  “Oh, that’s nothing you want to know about.” That’s nothing anyone wants to know about. Me, coming back to my hometown with my tail between my legs? No.

  Roman raises his eyebrows. “Don’t I?”

  The sincerity in his face makes me laugh. “It’s not—you know, it’s not a date. You don’t have to—”

  He leans forward, closing the distance between us. “I don’t have to what? Tell me.” So much authority in two sentences. It makes me sit up straighter.

  “You don’t have to pretend to be interested and make conversation with me.” It comes out so casually that I want to give myself an entire row of gold stars and a raise.

  “Do you think I’m only pretending to be interested?”

  The resonance of his voice catches at a hidden place in my heart, tugging it out into the open, right there in front of him. I take a fortifying swig of champagne, draining the glass. “Does the dinner package come with wine, too?”

  Roman waves the waiter back over. “Red or white?”

  “Red,” I say automatically. All the research I did indicated that there was a certain sophistication to red wine. I’ve been drinking it in public since I turned twenty-one.

  For a moment I think he’ll let it slide, but the moment the waiter steps away, he’s at it again. “I’m curious. Why wouldn’t someone b
e interested in you?”

  I stall by taking a sip of the wine, pretending not to notice that it’s quite horrible. At least it’s alcoholic. “Is this part of the package, too?”

  He shoots me an amused look. “Do you always stall this much when someone asks you a simple question?”

  “Do you always ask this many questions on fake dates?”

  He cocks his head to the side, looking every bit as confident as he did back when I was invisible to him. “You’re the one who’s calling it a fake date.”

  Why can’t I be one of those people who never blushes? “Well,” I say primly. “It’s not possible for this to be a real date. For one thing, you’re my boss.”

  Roman nods slowly in agreement. “That’s true.”

  “For another....” Another hitch in my chest, a claw digging into the soft underbelly of the girl I used to be. “People like us—we’re not....” I have to search for the word. “Compatible.”

  Somehow, he even looks sexy when he’s eating a salad. “What would make two people like us incompatible? Hypothetically, of course.”

  “Of course,” I echo. “Hypothetically, a person like you is...a person like you.”

  “Very illuminating,” he says with a laugh.

  “Tall. Handsome. Strong.” This earns me a sultry curl of his lip. “You’re...visible. People see you. People want to be around you.”

  Roman laughs out loud. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to convince me that you’re some shrinking violet who fades into the background at every opportunity.”

  “I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but—”

  “But nothing.” Roman’s eyes are hot enough to burn. “I saw you in that red bikini, Jenny. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

  My mouth goes dry. “That was the intended effect.” It’s a hell of a thing to admit out loud, and a lightning flash courses across Roman’s face.

  “I knew it.”

  “You needed a wake-up call.” I keep my expression neutral, but my heart is about to beat itself right out of my chest. The air is thick and heavy. Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

  “Maybe I did.”

  “Your business did. That’s—that’s what I mean.” The flare of bravery sputters out. What business do I have telling him that I came here to show him what he’s been missing out on all these years? What he’s been missing is nothing but an illusion. All of it is an illusion, including this...date. This dinner. I plow ahead. “You’ve been coasting on the history of this place for way too long. It needs some flash, some flare....”

  “Some Jenny London?”

  That makes my stomach turn over, and not in a pleasant way. It’s true that they’re paying me a modest salary plus providing me with an employee bungalow at Bliss, but Connor’s bonuses are double that amount. I take another bite of salad and nod to keep myself from agreeing out loud.

  “I don’t buy it.” Roman leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest.

  “You don’t?”

  “Not for an instant.”

  “I’ll be stepping out for the main course,” the waiter says. That guy has all the cool in the room. He’s the one who should get a raise, not me. The door clicks shut behind him.

  “What don’t you buy, exactly?” I’d never have challenged him before. Not in a million years.

  Roman shakes his head from side to side. “You act so innocent that it’s almost believable.”

  I look around, an exaggerated motion. “Am I in some mafia movie?”

  He laughs, the sound low and rich. “I know why you came here.”

  Roman drops this revelation with a quiet confidence. I might throw up. How does he know? How does he know? Even if he recorded every keystroke on my computer, he’d never find evidence of me communicating with Connor. He can’t see into my bank accounts. He can’t know that the plan is for me to bow out gracefully after a few weeks, take the money, and start over back in the city. He can’t. Right? I realize I’m clutching the cloth napkin into a tight little ball and release it back onto my lap.

  “I’m here to be your social media manager.” My voice trembles on the word social, because of course it does. I can’t sit down for this. He seriously staged this dinner so he could fire me in the middle of it? What a cruel, unfeeling bastard. Even if I do deserve it. I stand up from the table and pace toward the balcony doors, pushing one open to feel the breeze. “And I’m doing a shoddy job. I didn’t even take any photos of the balcony. I should do that before the sun goes beneath the horizon, otherwise I’ll have missed a golden opportunity, pun not intended—”

  I whirl around to get the camera and connect solidly with Roman’s chest. He’s all man, all muscle, and the impact throws me off balance. He catches me easily, steadying me upright to look into my eyes. I’m awash with fear and the beach breeze makes for an odd contrast, tickling delicately along the back of my neck.

  “The camera,” I whisper.

  “You didn’t come here to be the social media manager. No, that was only a cover for your real objective. Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I wouldn’t see it?”

  “I did,” I protest weakly. “When Beau called me with the job offer, I knew I wanted to work here. The experience—”

  “Don’t act like this is a line item for your resume. I know exactly what this is. You can stop fighting and admit it, Jenny. Just admit it.” His hands are strong on my shoulders, but he’s not hurting me. He is, in fact, holding me upright. Being this close to Roman in the middle of a surprisingly intimate firing scene has turned my knees into wobbly Jell-O.

  “What is it, then?” I can’t help leaning into those hands. Who could? It’s surprising that the resort isn’t thriving based on Roman’s presence alone. A few shots of him on the social media accounts could do wonders. Maybe the next person to have this job will do that.

  “You came here to get my attention.” Roman is absolutely sure of himself. Authority rings in his tone. “Stop pretending otherwise.”

  My mind can’t process the rush of relief and desire and embarrassment that goes through me. “Why should I?”

  “Because you have my attention. All of it.”

  12

  Roman

  I couldn’t stand one more moment of watching Jenny pretend. She’s been so fucking coy the last week that it nearly ended my life. I’d rather have Jenny London in a bikini every day than Jenny London demurely avoiding my eyes every time I see her in the office, which she’s made rare by the fact that she works relentlessly.

  And me? I’ve been dying to touch her again.

  Sadly, my hands on her shoulders doesn’t even begin to scratch the itch.

  Jenny’s eyes are locked on mine, wide and searching, yearning. The expression on her face flickers back and forth between the gorgeous bombshell who walked into my office in that damned red bikini and someone...timid. Someone shy.

  “I’m not quite sure what to do with it,” she says, that soft voice raking its fingernails down my back, making goosebumps rise. “All your attention.”

  “So far, you’ve used it to torture me. And I think you know that.”

  Her smile is tentative, yet satisfied. “How could I know—?”

  “Damn it, Jenny, you know. You came into my office wearing that bikini. You dove into the pool in front of me.” I groan out loud at the next memory that hits me. “I’ve never seen anyone bend down like that in a yoga class.”

  “Not fair.” Slowly, she raises her hands up to my wrists, curling her palms gently around the softer flesh there. “The teacher asked us to.”

  “And you followed right along, didn’t you? You’re such a good student.” I run one of my hands up her arm to the line of her sleeve, then higher. She can’t help herself. She tilts her head into my palm, still watching me intently. At the word student, she flinches.

  “I do my best.”

  “Your best is killing me. It’s taking my attention from the business and putting
it firmly....”

  “Where?”

  “On you,” I say it again, and she shivers beneath my hands. “On everything about you. I spend half my day waiting for you to knock on the doorframe, just so I can hear your voice. You know exactly what you were doing to me with that bathing suit.”

  “I was proving my commitment to the job.” The cutest grin I’ve ever seen on a human being draws up the corners of her lips.

  “Commitment to the job, my ass.”

  “I am committed,” she pouts.

  “Fine. Fine.” I know I’m the one who invited her. I know I’m the one who set this up. In our little game of tug of war, it was my turn to tug, and she came along willingly. I thought being in charge would put me back in the driver’s seat, and here I am, trying my damnedest not to look like I’m losing control. But the truth is I am losing control. The truth is I am losing more and more self-control every moment that I stand here, touching her. “Just tell me one thing.”

  “What’s that?” She still has one hand wrapped around my wrist, and the other pressed to the back of my hand. It’s almost as if she’s afraid I’ll let go. As if letting go could make me want her any less. It would only make me want her more.

  “How long are you going to do this to me?”

  Jenny draws her bottom lip between her teeth. “Torture you with my very presence?”

  “Yes.”

  She looks down, her long eyelashes settling on her cheek. “I don’t know.” She looks back into my eyes like she might find the answer there. “It wouldn’t be right to go any farther, since you are my boss….” She can’t stop, can she? She wants to remind me again and again how forbidden she is, and it does absolutely nothing to deter me from—ah. Once again, Jenny’s several steps ahead. “I wouldn’t want to get either of us in trouble for breaking the rules.”

  “Fuck the rules,” I grit through my teeth, and Jenny sucks in a breath that sounds for all the world like a plea. God help me, I answer it. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve curved my hand around and under her chin, forcing it up another inch. I can feel all of Jenny’s weight through that hand, the unsteady desire coursing through her, so as she pants through those perfect lips, I wrap my arm around her waist and yank her close to me. I need her there. I need her there.