“I’m pretty handy, and I’ve been in and out of this place, on occasion…like everyone from Seascape Village. I’ll help.”
His moods are so changeable, I’m not sure how long this will last, but his help means his company, so I’ll accept the offer. “Right now I’m weeding the window boxes.”
He glances over at Mrs. Poole and Charleston, his lips quirking into a smile, the first one I’ve seen since I arrived at his doorstep. “Is that what you were doing?”
“National law requires a break every four hours,” I inform him. “I was making sure the hotel followed that directive by taking a fifteen minute break.”
“How sporting of you.” He grins that slow sexy grin, and I nearly melt. To hide the reaction I slip my gardening gloves back on.
He peers into Villa Seven’s closest window box.
“Jesus,” he mutters when he sees what a mess they are.
I pull out an offending plant and let it drop to the sandy earth below the window.
“The window boxes could use painting,” he observes.
“Most hotels have paint crews that they call in once a year to freshen things up,” I say. “Maybe the Villa has something like that?”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Well, maybe I can organize some employees on a slow day. We have lots of areas that would benefit from a fresh coat of paint.”
With his help the rest of the weeding is done too quickly.
“Guess I’d better get back to my duties.” Can he tell how much I hate saying this?
“I meant it when I said I’d help you. Not just half an hour of weeding. Tell me what you want me to do.”
What kind of question is that? I want him to do exactly what we did last night, again and again, until I die from the pleasure of it all. But I’ll settle for his company.
“The hotel isn’t busy tomorrow.” This is an understatement. It seems like every single guest headed out this morning, leaving the place echoing and empty. “I want you to help me with some painting.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Meet me at the staircase, with a few gallons of white paint.”
“Do you have brushes?”
“I guess you’d better bring those, too.”
He shakes his head, like he can’t believe how exasperating I am, but a slight grin pulls at his lips.
I turn back to running the hotel with a little more sparkle than before. Guests smile at me. Workers seem less intimidated.
It isn’t until around midnight, when I’m climbing into the lonely bed in my hotel room, that I truly allow myself to wonder whether Cruise is alone tonight.
He didn’t invite me back to his Villa, for partying, or otherwise, so I won’t make a fool of myself by showing up there. He could be partying with his friends, as usual, or he could have a girl there. Or possibly both.
I push the thought out of my mind, not sure whether I’m glad that my room only has a view of the parking lot, or devastated that I can’t spy on him like Mrs. Poole and Mrs. Charleston.
Eventually, I give up on thinking about Cruise and fall asleep. After last night, going to sleep alone is a sad disappointment.
Chapter 9
True to his word, Cruise brings paint and brushes through the lobby to meet me in the staircase. The grand staircase leads to the second floor, but after that, there’s just a wooden stairway to the third and fourth floors. Of course, the stairway is mostly decorative - most guests take the elevator - but I find it a shame that the staircase between the third and fourth floor, with its lovely woodwork, is so completely neglected.
The carpet here is old and industrial, and even though it needs to be replaced, I don’t have the authority to get that done, so I’m painting carefully, putting down cloths to protect the floor.
I’m wearing a pair of very short shorts that I don’t mind getting paint on, and a tank top.
His eyes take me in hungrily, and I blush under his gaze.
He tears his gaze away and sets the paint down on a strip of plastic. “I didn’t know if you wanted matte, or high gloss.”
Looking at the neglected woodwork, I’m not sure it matters.
“Anything will be an improvement,” I tell him.
“We’ll do the window boxes on the villas next.”
I’m sure he realizes that I chose this stairway because it’s secluded from prying eyes. I don’t care what Cruise’s issues are with people in the village, but he told me himself not to let on that I know him, and until he opens up to me, there’s no sense opening myself to the problems that are sure to follow a guy like Cruise.
He seems docile, today, but as he begins to sand the peeling banister, to remove the peeling paint from however many decades before, I see his muscles beneath the tight black t-shirt, and as he moves, his tattoos are exposed. He’s definitely not the kind of guy you take home to meet the parents.
“So, why hotels?” he asks, as I settle on the stairway beneath him, painting the railing he just sanded.