A Suite Life (Suite Love Series Book 2)

by Sue Gibson

  "Did you get what you paid for?" Delaney whispered.

  Oh, she was good. Really good. "Oh, yeah. I'd book this room for next year's vacation right now."

  "Good answer, Trey. Now we need to carry some of that beauty from out there to the actual suites."

  "You mean more driftwood?"

  She rolled her eyes and smiled at him. "No. Figuratively, not literally."

  "Gotcha" Man, she was cute. "Now, let's go back in and get some of this down on paper."

  Anxious to document their thoughts before anything brilliant was lost, he followed her inside. This was way better than he'd imagined. Some pretty amazing ideas could come out of this. And if not, settling on the sofa sounded equally as good.

  She was already seated, her hair tucked prettily behind her ears. He grabbed a pad of yellow lined paper from his desk.

  Close enough to smell her hair but not actually touch it, he poised his pen. How to put in words what he'd just experienced? He looked to his partner.

  Her eyes shone and she bounced gently, like a kid, on the overstuffed sofa cushion. "Okay, take notes," she ordered with a smile. "How about every room has a painting of the view from their own balcony, whether it is the lake or the back view of the spruce ridge. Each one would be unique, yet a variation of a theme."

  Caught up in her enthusiasm, he wrote rapidly until she paused for a breath. He dropped the pen and leaned into her and caught her flying hands. "We've already bought most of the artwork we need from the Co-op, but these paintings would be smaller, right? If we commissioned someone to paint them, I bet we'd have them finished in what, a couple of weeks?"

  Delaney stilled in his grasp and he watched a range of emotions flit through her eyes. "That sounds about right, Trey" She untangled her impossibly long legs, rose, and crossed the room. With a flick of one long, elegant finger, she opened the tiny fridge and selected a soda.

  He waited for her to return to him, to get swept up in her infectious enthusiasm again, but instead he felt shut off. What had just happened here?

  "Want one?" She swiveled to look at him, holding up her frosty can.

  "No thanks" She was watching him like a cat eyeing a mouse hole. She looked like she wanted to ask him something, but was holding back. The whole mood of the room shifted. He rose to join her, chucking the notepad onto the sofa.

  He walked toward her until only inches separated their faces. Backlit by the soft rays of moonlight, her face was in partial shadow, but he could see that her normally clear eyes fronted a storm within. Cautiously, he reached and tipped her face up to his. "Hey, what's up?"

  Was that a flicker of fear in her eyes? He dropped his hand to his side and then looked away, confused. Was it him she feared?

  She dropped her head. "I might know someone who could handle the job. That's all," she murmured, more to the room in general, than to him.

  "What, one of your friends?" He spoke hesitantly, as if uncertain he should continue. "You've been bang-on so far. I completely trust your judgment"

  She remained mute, twisting her hands together.

  "Delaney," he repeated, "Who do you think we should hire?"

  She felt ripped in half. If she took on the job and failed, then her dream of Paris would die right there in Buttermilk Falls. Why waste her time and hard-earned money on Paris if Trey, whose critical eye she'd come to trust, was unimpressed?

  She glanced to the obviously confused man in front of her and wanted, so badly, to tell him about the painting stashed in her bathroom. Her knees felt like water as she battled with indecision. It was now or never. Trust this guy with her heart and soul, or give him the name of Josh Brennan, a prolific landscape artist who no doubt could do a perfectly adequate job.

  She looked through the panes of the French doors. Each rectangular frame showcased a tiny panorama of the dramatic scene outside. Her eyes darted from frame to frame, fascinated with the individual story each portion told. She realized that not only could each room host a painting that replicated its particular view, but the tiny snippets would also make super postcards to sell in the lobby. Just the kind of thing Trey would love to explore, she knew.

  Clearing her throat, she moved to sit behind his desk and pulled the hotel's complimentary notepad front and center. If she was going to ask Trey for this incredible opportunity, she really should handle it in a businesslike manner. A profession proposal, free of personal prejudice.

  "Give me the job. Please, please," she pleaded. "It's perfect for me" She leaned across the desk, stretching her hands toward him. "I've lived and breathed this place for my whole life. You know I'll give it my all. I never hold back on anything I do"

  The expression on his face morphed from shock to fascination before finally settling into a broad smile.

  Emboldened, she charged ahead. What the heck, I've burned all my bridges now anyway. "I've already painted the view from my suite. It's stashed in my bathroom. Would you like to see it?"

  Her words were out now, there was no going back. The numbers on the bedside's digital clock told her only minutes had passed since entering the room, yet everything had changed. Her personal relationship with Trey was now mixed in with a sticky business proposal. Exactly the kind of thing any skilled, successful businessman avoided whenever possible.

  "Yes," he said.

  With his words, a paralyzing rush of emotion swept over her. Relief, happiness, followed by a mouth-drying fear chased one another in dizzying progression. Her hand shook slightly as she returned the notepad to the corner of the desk. He'd said yes.

  "The quick glimpse of your paintings I had on the day of your auction had me hooked. So," he continued, at a mind-boggling pace, "as much as I want to see your painting, it won't change a thing for me. Your passion, your vision, your picks so far have done nothing but convince me that I made the right decision in bringing you on board."

  If only her heart would stop pounding in her ears so she could weigh and judge his words-to be sure.

  "I would be honored to have your work hanging in the Nirvana-as would Ethan"

  On shaking legs, she pushed the chair back and made her way around the desk. "Thank you, Trey. I won't let you down." Excitement pounded in her veins, making her restless. She could hardly wait for first light to break over the ridge. To paint dawn from one of the lakeside suites would be a perfect start to the project.

  He held out his hand. "Now, take me to your painting," he said, reaching for her hand and leading the way toward the door.

  Right now, she knew she'd happily follow him anywhere. And as for their stupid pact? As far as she was concerned everything had changed since that night on Trillium Terrace. For her, anyway.

  There was no stopping the smile that broke over her face as she inventoried all that had happened in such a short time. She'd discovered she could paint again, right here in Buttermilk Falls. She'd discovered a man who made her laugh, who really got her, who shared her aversion to thinking inside the box.

  She curled her fingers tightly around his as they approached her door. Lily and Ethan, the world's most unlikely, yet happiest couple, both took huge leaps of faith to be together, she reminded herself.

  There was no denying it. She loved Trey Sullivan.

  He slid Delaney's key card into the panel and pushed the door open. Stepped aside and placing a hand on the center of her back, he ushered her through the entryway. There was a lilt to her step, her shiny black hair swinging easily across the nape of her neck.

  There was no denying it. He loved Delaney Forbes. It wasn't supposed to happen. He'd even suggested that dumb pact, swearing not to let it happen. But the fact of the matter was, he was crazy in love with Delaney. Just what he was going to do about it, he didn't have a clue.

  "Have a seat," she said, indicating the sofa. "I'll get the painting."

  She disappeared into the bathroom, clicking the door shut behind her. He heard a clatter of bottles and the sound of cupboard doors banging.

  His gaze roamed aroun
d the room, settling for a moment each time it landed on a familiar Delaney-item. The scarf she'd tied around her ponytail when they'd canoed across the bay was looped on a chair's back, the flimsy gold-colored sandals she'd worn the night they'd danced in the Starlight Room peeped from under the edge of the bed. On the desk sat a small bottle of perfume, its tiny stopper lying beside it, as if she'd applied a drop or two as an afterthought as she was leaving to meet him.

  Light from the bathroom suddenly flooded the hallway and she appeared. Her hands held something behind her back. She looked scared and he wanted to tell her she had nothing to fear. "Delaney, bring it over to the light," he urged, and reached to snap on the lamp.

  Refusing to meet his gaze, she set the draped twelveby-twelve square canvas on the end of the desk and against the wall. Immediately turning her back, she hurried through the open doors and out to the balcony.

  Alone in the room, he was suddenly nervous. What if he didn't like it? He shook his head, refusing entry to the nasty thought.

  Returning his attention to the painting, he whipped off the hand towel and stepped back to eyeball the piece.

  Don't think of it as Delaney's work, he instructed himself. Pretend you are in a studio. Opening night at a gallery in Toronto. He closed his eyes and reopened them.

  A small panoramic done mostly in blue and green acrylics stood before him. At first glance the artist demonstrated well-executed perspective, skillful technique. He leaned in for a closer appraisal and the details of the work drew him in deeper. A scattered flock of tiny birds caught his attention. Flitting through a layer of thin cirrus clouds and just above the massive spruce trees, she'd sprinkled in a flock of small, brown sparrows, some diving into the spruce's outstretched arms, others darting in and soaring away in retreat in an apparent game of tag.

  The trees stood in almost human stances. In particular, an old and gnarled spruce, its trunk seared by a lightning strike, stretched yards above the rest. Still strong, the tree appeared to be judging the junior ranks below it, sizing potential replacements as king of the forest.

  Seconds ticked by. His eyes were seduced by an expanse of blue on the bottom third of the canvas. He knew the lake to be deep and she'd skillfully layered indigo, black, and a moody green to create the effect of an almost bottomless floor. Instinctively, he drew back a step and placed his hand on the chair back.

  "Trey. You haven't said anything."

  Delaney. She stood framed in the balcony's door. She was waiting, of course. Not completely ready to leave the story unfolding in front of him, it took concentrated effort to pull out of the picture and focus on her anxious face.

  Her face looked pale. She was all vulnerability, stripped of pretense. A new Delaney stood before him. An overwhelming urge to protect her rose in his chest. An artist took chances, laid everything on the line in a way he knew he'd never be asked to do in the corporate world.

  She was the bravest person he'd ever met.

  Grateful to have no awkward choice to make, no need to carefully select his words, he spoke. "Outstanding. Riveting. Full of passion."

  Her eyes lit up, and she closed the space between them in an instant. "Thank you," she said in a husky voice, her hands grasping his forearms.

  "I'm as close to speechless as you will ever see me. You've encapsulated the view beyond my expectations. The job is yours."

  She squealed and catapulted into his arms. His arms circled her tightly and he swung her around, her hair a tumble of silk against his cheek.

  Her delight at his words made him glad. Glad? That word wasn't big enough. His chest felt swelled, and he knew his smile would have to be sandblasted off his face. Man, if he could come up with something every day of the week to garner this reaction he'd do it, just to share her rush of happiness.

  It'd been so easy too. He'd just told her the truth. He sobered slightly. If he'd experienced this reaction to her work, others would too. Big-time, actual art critics in Paris.

  His gut tightened. If she went to Paris, he could lose her. She'd get swept up in that world. No reason to remember him. After all, to Delaney, he was only a summer fling.

  He looked at her face. She was still glowing from his reaction to her work and the job offer. Both propelling her closer to Paris, her dream.

  He shifted to the edge of the sofa and scuffed a hand through his hair. He'd promised not to complicate all that with a declaration of love. He swore he wouldn't ever do anything to conflict her decision. Wasn't that why she'd made him promise to keep it light in the first place?

  "Okay, then. That experiment definitely qualified as a huge success" He patted the seat cushion next to him and picked up the television remote. "Okay if we stay in your suite and watch some TV? Let's see what brilliant ideas we come up with over here"

  She let his silly innuendo pass, too flabbergasted to respond. She wasn't ready to plop down in front the TV and order dinner from room service. Not yet anyway.

  Showing him her painting was huge. Nobody had seen her work for years. She needed a moment to process all that had gone down.

  She paced the small stretch of hallway while mentally checking off the events of the last few minutes. She'd fought her fear and had shown Trey her painting of the balcony's view. He'd loved it. She'd begged for the job of painting eleven more of them. He'd enthusiastically agreed.

  These were big-time events. And now he wanted to watch television. Right now?

  She eyed the back of his head as he flipped through the on-screen guide. A nice shaped head, normally full of intelligent thought, she decided, and topped with a crop of run-your-fingers-through-it, golden brown hair. On the nape of his neck, tiny hairs, bleached blond by the sun, traced downward and disappeared under his collar. His shoulders were broad, filling out his white polo T-shirt to perfection. She particularly enjoyed how the slight bulge of his biceps tightened the sleeve's narrow band as his arms lay stretched across the back of the sofa.

  Well, maybe she could watch just a wee bit of television.

  "What's your preference?" he called out, and nodded toward the selection of movie titles listed on the screen, "John Travolta or Brad Pitt?"

  She nestled in under his outstretched arm. She preferred Trey Sullivan. His spontaneous, intelligent humor. His honesty. His kisses. His arm draped around her shoulders.

  "Travolta, please. Remember, we watched a Brad Pitt movie on the plane this afternoon, dear," she said, following his playful lead. "I'm just glad to be at this beautiful resort. We so deserve this trip."

  Tomorrow would be soon enough to deal with the semantics of her new job. Like how to fit in painting time and still take care of the rest of her duties.

  But for tonight she was just going to enjoy Trey's company, order up some to-die-for room service meal, and thank her lucky stars for her good fortune.

  It was all Lily's doing, really. Lily had sent Trey to her art auction in the first place. Delaney wondered if Lily had more in mind than an art sale for her best friend all along. Probably. After all, madly-in-love types were wont to fixing up their single friends and acquaintances.

  Funny, a month ago, the very thought of Lily fixing her up with Ethan's right-hand man would have ticked her off. She snuggled in closer to his warmth, not the least bit annoyed with anybody. Funny how a thing called love changed a girl's viewpoint.

  The next two weeks flew past in a happy blur. Rather than speculate on an uncertain future, if any at all, Delaney decided to just relax and enjoy every minute of her time with Trey.

  Their workdays fell into an easy arrangement. Around eight each morning, Trey tapped on her door. She'd open it to a trolley laden with a yummy breakfast buffet. There were always two steaming mugs of Tim Hortons coffee and freshly squeezed juice, but after that, she never knew what they'd be feasting on: fluffy omelets, bagels from the Bluebird Cafe, crispy bacon and maple sausages or a homemade, fruity yogurt.

  They'd eat, seated comfortably on the loveseat and discuss the progress and problems of the
floor's transformation.

  After breakfast and with Trey off to his main floor office, she'd work on the small landscapes.

  The morning's easy rhythm left her feeling content, happy. They'd often lunch together too. Most days they would choose a quiet corner on the outdoor terrace, where they could discreetly examine a pencil drawing or check the budget's spreadsheet. After all, what vacationer wanted to be reminded of work?

  Sometimes, if rushed, they'd grab a sandwich from the kitchen and sit in the lilac-hedged courtyard reserved for staff members.

  Even though today was Saturday, she'd remained in her suite all morning, finishing up some loose ends. This "business" side of her job was tedious, and she tended to leave it to the last available minute. Unlike Trey, who settled in at his desk right away every morning and saved the more creative stuff for after lunch.

  After phoning Alison to confirm the arrival of the last couple of pieces of sandstone sculpture, Delaney had eyeballed the long list of e-mails and sorted them according to priority. She quickly deleted the junk and spam, answering the messages from suppliers, artists, and friends according to date.

  Lily was online again asking how the driftwood piece looked inside the hotel. She'd given her thumbsup to the project earlier and wondered if there was a photo.

  A couple of clicks and drags later and Lily's photo was soaring through cyberspace along with a pithy little note, thanking her for her expert advice and unwavering friendship.

  Delaney let her head drop back and stretched her arms high above her head. Slowly she turned in her swivel chair and let her gaze drop to floor level. Her newly-framed oil paintings leaned against the neutral wall like holiday postcards, each declaring their particular spot to be the most beautiful.

  Delaney slid from her seat and sat cross-legged in front of her work. Like a judge at a county fair eyeing a display of freshly baked pies, her eyes darted from painting to painting. Who could choose! It was like asking a mother to pick the favorite among her children.