Bliss Brothers: The Complete Series Boxed Set, page 17
“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.
Her eyes are glued to the keg.
It’s not just any keg. Definitely not a beer keg. It’s filled, courtesy of Rob five minutes before he had to be here for the party, with my specialty drink—the Moscow Mule.
Now that’s a joke—that I have only one specialty drink. Ha. It is, however, my specialty drink for this occasion.
I only have to shake three hands to know that this crowd is in dire need of what’s in the keg. Dire. Everybody’s clutching little glasses of beer too tightly, and I wag a finger in disapproval at one of the guys closest to me. “This is a cocktail hour, my man. Why are you settling for beer?”
He looks down at the drink in his hand and back up to me. “Got something better in that keg?”
“Is my name Beau Bliss?”
He puts a hand on my shoulder like we’re old war buddies and bows his head. “Yes. You sure as hell are.”
It makes me laugh, because I’ve never seen this guy before in my life. I’m assuming he lives around the curve of the lake, since these two weeks are dedicated to proving that we’re good citizens of Ruby Bay, but it would have been even funnier if I wasn’t Beau. I should have sent Charlie in my place. What a missed opportunity.
“Beau’s come to save the day!” He calls to nobody in particular, and they cheer. They actually cheer. I hear the whispers go out into the room like a wave off the lake, and that same energy moves through every one of the people in this stiflingly elegant room with its too-perfect flower centerpieces and—what is that, a table full of gift cards? My God.
They part like the Red Sea to let me through to the bar, where I hand the keg to Rob like the spoils of war, do our secret handshake, and get the drinks flowing. I let him pour me one, too. I’ve had four virgin drinks this afternoon in my rounds at the pool, and I’m due for a real one.
Half of it’s gone, warming my belly, when I become aware of a disapproving presence at my side. I saw Roman heading into the office on my way over here, and everyone in this room loves me—except for one person.
“I thought you were leaving things up to me,” she says softly. It’s not really a question.
I thought I was, too. But the hell with that. The hell with everything. If I’m going to be handcuffed to a keeper for the next two weeks with the threat of being fired hanging over my head, then there’s only one thing to do: double down.
“Change of plans,” I tell her with a dashing grin that is no doubt responsible for the pink that comes to her pale cheeks. “You’re stuck with me.”
6
Claire
“Tell me,” Beau says, putting down his pen. “What possible value do people get out of dinners like this one?”
This seems like more than a slightly ridiculous question for him to be asking, but after I set aside the smooth tenor of his voice, I realize I don’t know exactly what he means. I’m not sure I’ll ever know what someone like Beau Bliss really means, but if there’s any time to talk about this….
Now probably isn’t the optimal time to discuss the relative value of a dinner party versus a beach blowout that ends in illegal activities, but I’m capable of letting the conversation steer itself. A little.
“What do you mean, value?”
He leans back in his chair and knits his fingers behind his head, looking up at the sky. From here, his profile is striking—all cheekbones and cut lines and a brushing of stubble that makes me want to run my fingers over those lines, which is a breathtakingly unprofessional urge. I let the thought float away from me without putting down roots.
Sure I do.
“I mean—what does anyone get out of dressing up in uncomfortable clothes and making small talk while your collar is tight enough to choke you?”
I flip my folio shut so I can give him my full attention. Ancient habit. “If your collar is too tight, you’re buying the wrong size shirt. Or you need to find a new tailor.”
That makes his mouth turn up in a smile, and a strange burst of pride blooms in my chest. I do not care about impressing Beau Bliss, but when it happens…I can’t say I hate it.
“Picture a starched collar, then. Clothes you’d rather not be wearing. If you can even picture that.”
“What do you mean by that?” I keep my voice neutral and light, though the words feel like the prick of a thorn against delicate skin. Never look offended. It pinches your face, whispers that voice.
He cuts his blue eyes across at me, his gaze lingering on my face for a moment longer than necessary. “I mean I’ve never seen you in anything I would call comfortable.”
“I was pretty surprised to find out you own a blazer.”
“Own?” He puts a hand to his chest. “I had to borrow that from my brother for the party.”
A laugh that’s the sister of a giggle bubbles up into my mouth and escapes before I can stop it. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not. I’ve basically only seen you in swimwear.”
“Excuse me?” He looks down, chin tipping to take in his shorts. “I would hardly call this swimwear. Although…” He drums his fingertips on the white linen tablecloth covering the table. “If you try hard enough, anything can be swimwear.”
The thought of jumping into a pool with him, even fully clothed, even as part of a ridiculous joke, makes me feel…something. Something hot enough that I have to clear my throat. “I thought you were asking about value. Swimwear doesn’t add value to any event.”
“It adds value to a pool party.”
Do I want to see him in a swimsuit? Yes. Yes I do. But will I ever admit that out loud? Not in a thousand years. “But you—” I clear my throat again, then mentally harangue myself for indulging in such an abrasive habit. “You asked about dinner parties.”
He did ask, because he’s here. Beau, in one of the greatest shocks of my lifetime, has kept his word. I am stuck with him. This morning when I got to the office, he was waiting for me, leaning up against the meeting room table in his shorts and button-down, his blue eyes challenging me to say something about it. If I was his boss, I would—but Roman doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. He did seem to have a slight problem with the way the cocktail party ultimately turned out, with the volume on someone’s portable speaker turned up high and everybody a little more than tipsy, but a disapproving frown when he checked in at the end of the evening is all I got.
But Beau won’t stay in a meeting room for long, so we’ve taken our dinner party planning to the room where the dinner party will be held—one of the ballrooms on the main level. It’s not in the same building—there’s a separate event space for that across a beautiful courtyard from the main hotel—and the arched windows look out over that same courtyard, with a gorgeous fountain centerpiece and intricate brickwork paths winding through blooming plants.
“That’s right.” He angles his body toward me, which has the effect—no doubt purposeful—of tightening his shirt around his narrow waist. It doesn’t make it easier, knowing what’s beneath that shirt. “Does small talk add anything to anyone’s life? And aren’t these events just a vehicle for small talk?”
The way he says small talk makes it sound like corkscrews in thumbs. It even makes my collar feel too tight, and I’m wearing a boatneck shirt.
“The value is in…” For a hot moment, looking at Beau, I can’t think of a single way my dinner parties add value to anything. “The value is two-fold.”
“Two-fold,” he murmurs, in a deep voice that somehow makes the word two-fold sound dirty. “Tell me more about that.”
I flip open my folio again. “You don’t want to hear more about this. You’re—not that type.”
A frown flits over his face and disappears. “What type is that?”
“Beau—Mr. Bliss.” He’s caught me out, and a flash in his eyes tells me that he didn’t miss my slip of the tongue. “You don’t strike me as the type to get very…meta…about events.”
“You’ve caught me out.” He straightens up, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “I’m just the life of the party, no more, no less.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” His eyes sparkle, but I don’t quite believe it. “Nobody on this entire resort would bother selling you the line that I’m the intellectual of the family. That’s Charlie.”
The more he talks, the more his voice rumbles beneath my skin. I hate how much I like that.
He leans in, like he’s about to tell me a dark secret. “The thing is…I can get into an exchange of ideas. Besides, you told me that the value of dinner parties is two-fold. So far, you’re zero-fold at explaining.”
I try my best not to blush. I’ve been keeping it under control, the blushing, but Beau insisted on sitting in the next seat over, and there’s a scant thirteen inches between us. “Yes, two-fold.” I see the hint of a grin. He likes getting under my skin this way.
Ugh. Why do I have to like it, too?
“Two-fold,” I say again, even though the more I say it, the filthier it sounds. What man on the planet can make a word like two-fold sound like a sex position? “Part of the value is from the experience for the attendees. The key is to make the event seem special. One-of-a-kind.”
“Is any dinner party truly one-of-a-kind?” He considers me, and once again I’m forced to suffer through an internal reckoning. It’s hot, the way he looks at me. But it’s not real. Or at least—it couldn’t be real, even if it was real, which doesn’t make any sense. “It seems to me they all have so many elements in common that it’s impossible to stay within the mold and have a unique experience at the same time.”
“Of course it is. It’s in the details.” Please, I beg silently. Don’t ask me for any details. I couldn’t list them out right now if I tried.
“What about the second part?”
“What?”
“You said the value was…two-fold.” He leans in a little when he says this and why, damn it, why does it make me want to lean right back in? What happened the night of the rowboat attack? How does a man with this much magnetism ever have a party go wrong?
“Yes.” I refuse to say it again, because if I do, I might have to leave the room. “The value is also for the client. When they become known for creating unforgettable experiences, it raises their cachet within the community, drawing in more business. Everyone who brings me on needs this value.” This is the same pitch I’d give anyone, because it’s true. It’s why people hire me in the first place—their do-it-yourself events don’t get the kind of buzz and recall that events like mine do.
Or should. If I had a few more chances, I could really show Ruby Bay what I’m made of.
“Counterpoint,” Beau says. “The Bliss Resort already creates unforgettable events. Our cachet is already raised.”
With Beau as the center of attention, how could anyone forget anything that goes on here, good or bad? I almost say it out loud before I catch myself and press my lips together, tight. I cannot let those words get out. “I can’t argue with that.”
He’s still looking at me. He’s not touching me, not in any way, and yet I still feel like I might burst into flame at any moment.
“You know, you think you’re being neutral and the argument is written all over your tone.”
I drag my eyes up to his, even though I’d rather stare into the comforting white abyss of the tablecloth and let my mind float into an empty meditation space where nothing can touch me except for Beau. I mean—where nothing, even Beau, can touch me.
“My tone?” My voice goes up higher than I’d planned. “My tone is perfectly neutral, thank you very much.”
He laughs. “Not just then.”
“Well, no, not just then, but—” I sit up straight and take a breath. This must be what it feels like when a train you’re riding is about to slip off the tracks. “Let’s focus on the matter at hand, rather than my tone. Tomorrow’s dinner party.”
“What else is there to discuss? Surely you’ve planned another unforgettable event.” He puts the slightest emphasis on the word unforgettable, and it’s all I can do to pick up my pen and prepare to make notes on the next one. IT wasn’t me, after all, who made the event something to remember. It was Beau, with that damned keg of his. People were still talking about the gift of his Moscow Mules even as they completely overlooked the table full of gift cards. Because of course they did.
“I have.” I’m sure now that Beau will attempt to put his own spin on it, which I have to nip in the bud. “This time, try your best not to ruin it.”
“Ruin it?” His smile is so wide and perfect that I have to keep my eyes on the folio. “Did I ruin the cocktail party?”
“Yes.” In a sense. In a sense, he gave it a fun twist and no boats were hired. It ended in an impromptu dance session on the floor next to the bar, running over the allotted hour by twenty minutes. We can’t have that at the dinner party—not if I’m going to keep my job, repair the pipes in my house, and get a glowing reference from Roman. “No kegs this time, Beau. No Moscow Mules.”
There’s a beat where I’m sure he’s going to argue.
“All right,” he says finally. “You got it.”
But the look on his face tells me that I’ve only made him choose a different angle.
This Beau—who is by my side every moment of the working day, making me hot under the collar—will find some way to turn the dinner party upside down.
I know it.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.
7
Beau
“She’s the most uptight person I’ve ever talked to in my life.”
