“Huh. Interesting. Remind me to get you really drunk later.”
“I have a feeling that won’t be difficult. I plan to consume copious quantities of booze in hopes of erasing the past year from my memory.”
And we’re back to Armstrong and his assholery. For someone as smart as Amalie seems to be, I have a hard time understanding how she managed to fall for his bullshit in the first place. It’s not a question I feel I have the right to ask just yet, though.
Owning the resort means it’s easy to secure an over-water bungalow for Amalie when we’re typically fully booked a year in advance. Interestingly, the one beside mine just happens to be empty for the next week. Very convenient. I’m sure we can shift the guests around so she can stay there as long as she wants. I help Amalie bring her bags out to the bungalow. The bed—a massive king—is set in such a way that it provides an unobstructed view of the inactive volcano across the water. The bar fridge is stocked and a bowl of fruit sits in the center of the small table.
“Everything will be taken care of, all your food, drink, everything’s included while you’re here and feel free to take advantage of the spa. I’ll have credits applied to your room so you can use it whenever you want.” I open the sliding doors and we step out onto the deck.
“That’s not necessary. You’ve been more than generous bringing me here.”
“Consider it market research. We need to update the service list, and your experiences will help me make better decisions on what changes should be implemented.” I point to the left, at the neighboring bungalow. “That’s me, right there. I have to attend a meeting shortly, but I’ll be back later this evening, just knock on my door if you need anything.”
“Right. Of course. Thank you again for your kindness.” Amalie closes the gap between us and wraps her arms around my waist. She’s wearing flip-flops instead of heels, so the top of her head doesn’t even reach my chin.
I return the embrace, enjoying the feel of her body against mine. I’d like to stay with her and help her settle in, but I have a meeting to prepare for. I can check on her when I get back. She looks a little lost when I leave, and I hate to admit it, but I kind of like the way she seems to need me.
Eleven: Martini Mouth
Lexington
My afternoon meeting turns into dinner and drinks with several of the managerial staff and a few of the high-rolling clients who frequent the resort on a regular basis.
My father sending me here is a big deal. While it gets me out of the line of fire for Armstrong’s bullshit, it’s also his way of telling me, not so subtly, that he’d like to see me up my game. Until the past six months, he thought I was coasting.
I can attribute it in part to my mother’s illness, and it’s for that reason that my father hasn’t really pushed for more from me. Until now. But the truth is, it’s more than that. Griffin is good at what he does, but he’s quiet and the people part of the business isn’t really his thing. Bancroft shows promise in the renovation side of the business, but he doesn’t want to head the company. I’m the one my dad is relying on to keep the Mills empire running when he’s set to retire. It’s what I want, even if I haven’t been particularly good at expressing it up until now.
That’s a lot of responsibility for me since I’ve been seen as a fuck-up for most of my life, thanks to my constant battles with Armstrong. He’s done a great job of making me look incompetent, and more often than not, I’ve fed right into the games he played. It hasn’t been helpful in restoring my father’s faith in my ability to manage this business with a level head. He worries about me being reactive, which has been a valid concern.
Bancroft joining the team last year has pushed me to look at how I haven’t been doing my best. I don’t want to let my father down, and more than that, I don’t want to let myself down. This is my opportunity to demonstrate to him, and myself, that I’ll be able to take over the business when he retires. It’s not that I was a complete slacker until recently, it was more that I was used to getting great results without putting in maximum effort. That’s changed, though. I see how hard Bane works, and I recognize that if I put in the same amount of effort, we’d see even greater results. It’s not a competition, it’s a collaboration.
My father will never walk away fully, but my mother’s cancer scare has made him realize just how important she is, and that he doesn’t want to miss out on these years because he still feels compelled to work seventy hours a week. There’s some good in the bad, I suppose.
It’s late by the time I return to the resort. I’d like to check on Amalie, but her bungalow is dark. I don’t want to bother her if she’s sleeping. Still wired from the day, I change and head to the bar for a quick drink.
The nightlife here is always on point. Unlike Amalie’s previous resort, this place isn’t all couples and honeymooners, although there are plenty of them. Singles come here for a getaway. Families and their nannies will spend two weeks enjoying the sun and scenery. It’s a mixed group, which makes it a better option for those who are unattached.
I was born to socialize. In high school I had friends in every group. I had connections with the potheads; I spent time with the rockers and always went to dive bars to listen to them play; I was tight with the study nerds, the kids in metal shop, the drama geeks, you name it, I could find a way to relate. It’s why my father sends me on these trips. Beyond the fact that I’m unattached and he doesn’t need to worry about taking me away from someone important, I’m good at schmoozing. People like to talk to me. It’s as much a gift as it is a curse.
I make my way to the bar and watch people interact. Singles mingle and flirt, couples and honeymooners close-talk, eyes straying to the people on the dance floor. It’s loud in here. I survey the length of the bar and take note of the familiar long wavy blond hair. Amalie.
She’s not hiding out in her room. She’s angled toward the man leaning on the bar next to her. His intentions are clear in the way his eyes roam over her body when she crosses her legs. Nope. No fucking way am I going to allow some random douche to hook up with her.
As I close in on them I notice a few things. Her dress is a second skin, clinging to her toned, luscious body. I have my doubts Armstrong would approve of her wearing something like this in public. And I get why. I wouldn’t want anyone else to see her in something quite so provocative unless she’s hanging off my arm, and everyone in the room knows she’s off-limits.