Bliss Brothers (Complete Series), page 16
Worse than that, he’s—he’s hot. Out in the sun, there was no denying it. The abs on Beau Bliss are abs for the ages. Could he tell that I got slightly short of breath looking at them? Looking at the way the sun played over his skin?
Oh, God.
I spin around, not thinking about catching my heels on the tile, and look out over the wrought iron fencing surrounding the pool in the direction of the beach. There’s a lush wide lawn and a low wooden staircase snugged up to a wooden ramp—accessible, I think approvingly—and a more accessible pathway leading out to a surface in the sand where a yoga class is in full swing.
A yoga class, in the middle of the remnants of last night’s disaster. Eight people dressed in matching polo shirts in the resort’s color scheme walk side by side, picking up the detritus in their wake, and I watch them while I try to get my face under control.
Now is not the time to look panicked.
Now is not the time to look anything except busy.
First things first—there’s no use in standing out here by the pool. The sun is warm on my shoulders. It would feel so good to take off my blazer, but that’s a desire I won’t entertain. Among…other desires.
I sling my purse over my shoulder and walk around the pool, painfully aware of the clicking of my heels on the tile. Roman mentioned there being a temporary office, but then he went to that meeting, and Beau—
Beau quit.
I cannot go back to Roman and tattle on his brother. The thought is so childish and unprofessional that I catch making a face that would not be attractive on anyone—the face that says I smelled something awful and it’s lingering. Not a good look. My mother would be on that in the snap of a finger.
Not only am I morally opposed to tattling, I’m dealing with a family business. That’s going to make things more complicated than I envisioned.
Back in the office wing of the main resort building, I paste a cordial smile on my face and approach the receptionist.
“Hi there, Claire. What can I do for you?”
I can’t help smiling wider, even though offices are not the place to let emotions run wild. “Mr. Bliss had mentioned a…temporary office space. Is he back from his meeting yet? I don’t want to bother anyone else about it.”
“Oh, sure, sure.” She stands up immediately from her office chair. “I’m not sure if he had an office chosen for you, but you’re free to use the meeting room. And don’t worry about bothering Roman. He’ll be happy to help.”
I’m not sure he will be happy, once he finds out that I’ve somehow driven his brother away with my sheer professionalism. Good for me.
Sarah, Roman’s receptionist, takes me to a small meeting room on the outer edge of the bullpen and closes the door behind her to leave me in peace. I settle myself at the long meeting table, smooth out my skirt, and pull out my tablet from my purse, arranging it carefully next to the folio.
I thought I would feel better in here.
But after being out in the summer breeze….
There’s no time to get angsty about summer breezes. I flip open the tablet, fold out the keyboard, and immediately get to work.
The cocktail hour is planned, yes. But there’s a formal dinner scheduled for Friday night for which I have yet to finalize the details. Formal dinners are my thing. It should be no problem. But my stomach churns with anxiety. Is Roman going to fire me over what Beau did? Should I just…quit now?
I flip through the screen of my tablet and land on the email app, opening it out of habit. There are no new client requests, but one subject line in particular makes my heart pound.
It reads PIPES.
I never let emails go unanswered, so even though I am filled with dread, I open it immediately.
It’s from Howard, the man in charge of the renovations on the fixer-upper I bought three months ago with the last dregs of my savings. I’ve been making it work in a cute little motel on the other side of town while he makes it livable. My ultimate plans are for him to do the major work and I’ll finish the finer details myself.
I don’t even take in full sentences, just phrase after phrase that make my heart sink. Not rated for 50 years, reads one. Immediate replacement, says another. Unlivable, says a third.
It’s going to cost me at least a few thousand dollars. At least.
I raise one hand to my forehead and rub at the worry wrinkles I find there, smoothing my expression into something appropriate for the office.
That settles it.
I don’t have enough money in my savings to fix the pipes and keep living at the motel and run my business. I just don’t. The math doesn’t work.
There’s no backing out of this job now, even if Beau is determined to make me look terrible.
I straighten my back and snap my fingers onto the keyboard.
I’m trapped.
And I have to make the best of it.
* * *
BEAU
The hot tub is my old faithful companion, being everything it’s supposed to be. Clean. Hot. With jets.
It seems counterintuitive, getting into the hot tub when my skin feels like it’s on fire, but I’m just doing my job, ma’am. A couple of resort guests struck up a conversation on the path while I was on my way out to my house on the club side. It’s my curse that I can charm everyone but Claire Cashmore. I can only make her blush.
Anyway, the casual conversation led to a casual dip in the hot tub, and it’s all going to plan, adding to the guest experience, that is, until a shadow literally falls over me.
“What kind of person would block out the sun?” I say jovially, then look up into the faces of not one but two of my brothers.
It’s Roman, along with Driver.
“Driver! I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Just got in,” he says, an antsy expression playing over his face. Driver never stays in one place for long. It’s a good thing Roman approves of his bizarre sponsorship ideas for the resort, because I have no idea how they produce any profit.
Not that it’s my business to know. I’m just the party guy.
“Can’t say I didn’t expect to find you in the hot tub,” Driver says, cutting a glance at Roman.
“I didn’t expect you to be in the hot tub. I expected you to be planning the cocktail party with Claire.”
I raise my drink—another virgin mimosa, since at least the orange juice is invigorating. “I decided to apply my talents to on-the-ground efforts.”
“And you’re certainly doing that.” Roman flashes a smile at the guests in the hot tub with me, and one of the women makes a hmm sound that I know well and do not care about in the slightest.
Not in this moment, anyway.
The guy—I’m not sure if he’s with the women or met them at the resort—flexes his muscles, sprawling his arms across the ledge of the hot tub. It’s clear he’s spent a lot of time out on the lake or at the beach. He’s very tan.
“You guys are brothers,” says one of the women, who has bleached blonde hair and dark eyes. “Wow. Wow.”
“There is a family resemblance.” I give her the classic Bliss smile, but I can’t bring myself to care about her revelation. This is par for the course. All part of the job. “But I’m getting the impression that my brothers here want a word.” I rise out of the hot tub, take some long strides over to the nearest deck chair, and snatch up my towel. I’ve got this down to a science, even if Roman thinks I’m good for nothing. I keep my abs on display—thanks, gym—while I towel off, and finish the production by tossing a wink in the general direction of the hot tub.
“Jesus, Beau,” Driver says with a laugh, the two of them having come over to join me. “Do you do private parties, too?”
“Everything I attend becomes a private party.” It’s a joke, though nothing about it feels particularly funny today. “And it’s all for you.”
Roman is having none of this. “Why aren’t you with Claire?”
“So many questions.” I run the towel over my hair.”
“It’s one question. Why aren’t you with Claire, planning out the events?”
I angle myself toward Roman, disguising my irritation with a guest-appropriate smile. “Here’s one: why would I be with Claire? Do you seriously want me to train my replacement?”
Roman blinks back at me. “Beau, this is strictly a matter of getting the resort back on track for the rest of the season. We have weddings scheduled, and more are booking up through the fall and winter.” I know as well as anyone what that means. Weddings are big business, and Roman is right to covet them. “It’s not about replacing you.”
I shrug like I don’t care at all, because part of me doesn’t. “She seems to have everything well in hand. Why would I screw that up for everybody?”
Both Roman and Driver stare at me for a long moment. “Are you telling me you don’t want to do your job?”
“Yeah. If you don’t, you could always come out on the road with me. I’m about ready to leave.” Driver waggles his eyebrows at me. “It’s an adventure, out there on the open road, and you could—” At the last moment, Driver notices Roman’s death glare and cuts himself off. “I mean, never mind. You are one hundred percent not invited.” He puts up a hand to block his lips from Roman and mouths you are, though.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” I tell Driver, hooking a thumb in the waistband of my swim trunks. “Roman, what I’m telling you is that I’ve been doing my job all this time, and clearly we’ve reached an impasse when it comes to the details of the job.” I take a deep breath, not allowing my shoulders to creep up by my ears. “Look—if you’re going to replace me, replace me. But I’m not going to set Claire Cashmore up to take my place.” Even if, in some deep, hidden part of my soul, it would be a relief. Really, it would. I could do—I don’t know. Something else.
Roman considers me, looking every bit a younger version of our dad. “Okay. Let’s be clear.” Frustration burns in his eyes. Ouch.
“Let’s be very clear.”
“If you’re going to duck out now, then I’ll have no choice but to hire out your work. And Claire will be uniquely positioned to step in.”
“So there’s no chance of a divide-and-conquer situation? She can conquer all the elegant events, and I can conquer one-on-one time with the guests.”
Roman is glaring now. “Help her with the events, Beau. Or you’re out.”
5
Claire
It’s a cocktail party. It’s just a cocktail party. How many cocktail parties have I arranged? At least thirty, by now, if you also count the ones I was hostess for back in my sorority days. Even then, I felt the pressure to make everything extremely classy and elegant. At first, the stakes weren’t very high—I was only the lowest-ranking member of the events committee, so anything I added to the events we planned was a victory. If one of my sisters, in a drunken haze, came over at the end of the night to tell me how much she loved the personalized favors, it gave me the kind of buzz that was formerly only available from doing everything absolutely right so that my mother didn’t have anything to nitpick.
It paid off, too. By the end of college, I won awards. By the end of college, I had big dreams of starting my own firm and taking over New York State and then the world. Nobody would ever find fault with my events. So far, I’ve been pretty good at minimizing any kind of mistake. Is it exhausting? Yes, but only a person who was exceedingly unprofessional would ever admit that in public.
The only thing is that it hasn’t exactly translated to wild business success. Maybe if I hadn’t moved back to Ruby Bay it would be easier, but it seemed like such a good idea after….
After what happened.
There is no time to dwell on that now. My schedule today has been blocked out to the minute. I spent three hours this morning making absolutely sure that the centerpieces, bursting with summer flowers, were just so. Every guest is also going to go home with a small gift card from the Bliss Resort, a gesture of goodwill and an expensive one, too. Not just the cards themselves, which are premium to such an extent that they’re actually embossed with gold leaf, but the amount on them. It’s enough to pay for a one-night stay. Couples can get a weekend. They’ll have to wait for last-minute cancellations at this point, but that’s worth a free room in my book.
Those guests are due to start arriving any moment. I hover near the bar, then near the door. You look uncomfortable, says that voice in the back of my mind. Nobody wants to see an uncomfortable woman at a cocktail party.
It’s a fine line, because I’m not supposed to be the party. I’m supposed to fade away into the background of the party and facilitate enjoyment.
So why has being around Beau made me question my ability to do that?
No. I will not question my abilities.
In fact, my abilities are stellar.
“Do you have everything you need?” Rob, the bartender from down by the pool, is serving the cocktail party, and he gives me a genuine smile when I move my hovering back to the bar for the third time in the last thirty minutes.
He does a quick scan of the space behind the bar. “Everything’s in order. I’ll let you know if something comes up.” A slight frown flits across his face. “Or should I tell Beau?”
“Beau—” What do I even say, in this scenario? That Beau quit, and it’s because of me? If I say that out loud, the rest might come spilling out. The horrible truth that I care that Beau quit. I never let on to Roman that my businesslike attitude apparently chased his brother away, which is absurd in itself. Business should come before anything. Appearances should come before anything. Yet I spent all evening curled beneath the covers in my room at the English Rose Motel, fretting. “I think Beau’s otherwise occupied tonight.”
“Really? I thought there was no way anyone could keep him from this party.”
I let out a bark of a laugh. “I’m not sure if this is exactly his style.”
“He can make almost anything his style.” Rob shakes his head affectionately. “I’ve seen it happen more times than I can count.”
“Don’t get your hopes up for tonight,” I hedge, then pretend to check the centerpieces again. It’s pointless. I know they’re all perfect.
The first guests arrive—two handsome men from around the lake and the women they’ve brought with them—and I have no choice but to snap out of it and play the impeccable hostess. I’m out here on my own, since there is no other hostess and Beau isn’t going to be showing up, but it’s easy enough to shove that feeling out of sight and dive into my work, moving through the crowd, directing people to the appetizers, and fading away. There are quite a few men in attendance who make the phrase silver fox ring in my head like a bell.
Fifteen minutes. That’s all it takes, and everybody’s circulating and enjoying the appetizers, and the cocktail party is happening.
Half an hour. Roman appears at the doorway, looks in, and catches my eye. He gives me a definitive nod, and a powerful rush of relief nearly brings me to my knees. I’m going to fix the pipes after all, and the party is going to be a wild success.
Forty minutes. The noise level has settled into a comfortable conversational hum, and it’s almost time to distribute the gift cards. Nobody will be doing that by hand, of course. They’re set out on a table by the door, making it a simple transition to end the cocktail hour. I’m so close. Another successful event in the books.
Someone close to the door—a man, I don’t see which—calls out, “Hey!”
The sound is so gleeful that it seems…off. My heart does an unsteady flip down to my shoes.
That’s when I turn and see him.
Beau, coming in the door like an avenging prince in a blazer and pants, his white shirt a delicious contrast against his tan skin.
“Just in time,” he says. “Don’t worry. I made it.”
Yes, he did.
With a keg in his hands.
* * *
BEAU
IF ROMAN WANTS me to be at this cocktail party that badly, then I’ll be at the cocktail party.
He was not entirely explicit about what he meant when he said help her with the events or you’re out, but I’m assuming that the first step is to show up. There’s no going back on her earlier planning—nobody invited me to that in the first place—but I have received the message he was sending.
Be careful what you wish for, Roman, because here I am.
I spent a solid hour arranging for someone at the main hotel to press my sport coat and slacks—and you can bet your ass they’re navy with pinstripes that bring out the color of my eyes. I look like a million bucks. Even Claire won’t be able to complain.
Just kidding.
But there’s no way in hell I’m going to stand there like everybody else in their cocktail attire and leave this gathering in the same state I found it in. There’s a small part of me that could. I could go along with whatever it is that Claire has planned. I could make not a single solitary wave. But that’s not what Roman wants. Oh, no. He wants me involved.
I’ll be involved, all right.
I could tell from outside the door that this party—this cocktail hour—is one of those affairs that leaves everyone desperate for an adrenaline rush. Roman clearly doesn’t understand that, and neither does Claire. Every second that passes without some real entertainment makes it more likely the group will storm the beach and, I don’t know, sink a rowboat.
What no one seems to realize is that the other night was a fluke. A mistake. One beach party gone out of hand. And the only problem was that it got slightly too out of hand. Every party needs to get a little out of hand.
But don’t ask me for my wisdom on that. Oh, no.
In the end, who would I be if I didn’t get this cocktail hour a little out of hand?
Not the Beau Bliss they’re all counting on. Not by a mile.
I ignore the niggling knowledge that I’m not the Beau Bliss everybody is counting on. Maybe if I just admitted it—
Not now.
Not now, with Claire staring at me like that.
I tuck the keg under one arm to free up my right hand, because everybody’s coming to talk with me. Still, I can’t help stealing glances at her face. It was priceless to watch the realization of my presence dawn on her when I walked in, but with every second that passes, it’s worth another stack of riches.
