I nod, but it’ a lie. I’m never going back in. Not after that experience. And I’m never trusting Cruise again. Even as I think this, I realize my arms are wrapped around him and I pull him closer. My lips are against his cheeks. I ache to kiss him, but I force myself not to.
“Goddamn it,” he mutters, and he does what I wanted. His lips meet mine, gentle but insistent, taking my breath away.
Waves roll over our legs, lapping at us, trying to pull us deeper, but we’re mired in wet sand, intertwined. Uncaring about the rest of the world and who might be watching.
Cruise pulls away first.
“We can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t do this to you. I know, without a doubt that I’m not the right person for you.”
I look up, into his face. His wet hair. His blue eyes, trying to understand, but I don’t have enough information to even have a clue.
He stands, not bothering to brush off the sand that clings to him.
We cross the beach, walking past mothers with children, who don’t make eye contact with the deranged couple who were just kissing in the surf. We pass our beautiful sand castle, now partially destroyed because some asshole kicked part of it down.
Suddenly, Cruise’s body language changes. He tenses and his arm drops from my shoulder.
A long expensive town car is parked beneath the overhang where guests’ cars are generally unloaded. Two of the bellboys are waxing it.
“Damn,” Cruise mutters. He glances to where the car is parked, and his wide shoulders slump. “You could make a name for yourself here, Maya. But not if certain people see you with me. Not if what happened, last night, and just now, happens again. I will ruin your chances.” He steps away from me.
With that, he turns and stalks away. Not toward his villa, but toward town. Bewildered, I stand, watching, until I see him disappear into the liquor store. He’s gone for more alcohol. He’s left me and gone to the liquor store. I wait, but when he doesn’t emerge, I start to feel ridiculous. Between his rudeness this morning, and just now, he’s made his feelings clear. He doesn’t care about me. He wants to be rid of me.
I can understand why he invited me to his room, a new conquest, just like Dawn said. And I was dumb enough to fall for it. But I’ll never understand why he helped with the sandcastle, invited me for a swim, acted like he wanted to explain, and then abandoned me.
The car that caught Cruise’s attention sits beneath the overhang, gleaming in the sunshine.
“Whose car is this?” I ask the bellboy who is polishing it.
“Mr. Bancroft’s,” his voice comes out a squeak.
So, my employer must be back, and something about his presence sends Cruise into cataclysms of self-loathing.
As I enter the lobby Adrian Bancroft sees me. He’s wearing a very bright blue blazer that makes his washed out blue eyes look more hung-over than usual, and a pair of khakis. “Miss Bennett!” he exclaims. “I was hoping to run into you.”
“Well, here I am,” I say warily.
“I’ve heard you’re doing an excellent job. So for the next week I’m promoting you to full-time manager. Days and nights. I’m going to be going on a little excursion, and I’d like you to be in charge.”
He glances at his cell phone, obviously already bored by the act of talking to me.
“What do you mean you won’t be here? I’ve only been employed here for three days. I have no idea—”
“Ah, but you are fully trained in hospitality and marketing, aren’t you?” Beneath the words, there’s a threat. If I can’t run the hotel with no training and no back-up, then according to this asshole, I don’t deserve to be running it at all.
“I am fully trained in those areas,” I admit. “But I’m not fully trained at this hotel.”
“One hotel is very much like the next,” he says. “People go to the bar, and stay there for the night.”
This is exactly what I don’t believe. I believe that hotels, especially fancy old hotels like the Seascape Villas have a life of their own. A personality, so to speak. Something Adrian Bancroft wouldn’t get. But…I wonder if Cruise would. I suspect he has some level of sentimentality about this town and the bay itself. The question is moot, since he’s made it clear we aren’t to speak to one another again.
“If your hotel is just like the others, why is it special—” I begin, because I know it is. But Adrian doesn’t want to hear it.
“Sweetheart,” he drawls, “There are hundreds of people dying for jobs in management. But you seem ambitious, and smart. I feel certain you can hold down the fort until my friends and I return from our little excursion.”
His poorly concealed flattery isn’t likely to work on me, but I realize suddenly, that the car out front wasn’t there for Richard Bancroft. Adrian is taking his daddy’s car. I wonder if this revelation will change Cruise’s warning that I should forget I ever met him. Surely, he can’t be intimidated by Adrian Bancroft. Though being upset at the prospect of seeing gentlemanly Richard Bancroft doesn’t make any sense either.