“I knew it. I knew I couldn’t trust you once I saw the way you looked at my son. Everything he touches turns to shit.”
Somehow it’s worse to hear a man as refined as Richard Bancroft curse than it is to hear the hatefulness of his words.
“You may be right about me, Dad, “ Cruise steps between us. “But don’t insult Maya.”
“I adored Maya. She’s the best thing to happen to this hotel in years. It breaks my heart to have to fire her, because of you.”
These words are followed by absolute silence.
“Dad.” In this moment, pleading for my job, I can see a glimpse of the boy Cruise used to be. “You cannot fire Maya.”
“I have to.”
Cruise closes up, his face shuttered. This conversation must remind him of the night his father pressed charges against him. He shakes his head. “You aren’t quite human, are you?”
“You mean because I have standards? Because I want my son not to steal from me? Because I want him to treat the lady he claims to care for with more dignity than throwing her up against the wall of my hotel—a public place—for god’s sake—and having his way with her? Mrs. Carruthers was about to commit to investing in the hotel, we were two floors down and we could hear what you were up to. I told her it was probably some local teens, and we’d tighten security.”
Cruise laughs. I know he’s doing it to hurt his father. But it’s the moment when we go from being completely united, to being divided. I’m mortified that we were so loud, and when I’m seeing my dream fall apart before my eyes, I can’t believe he would laugh.
“Maya,” Mr. Bancroft says, “I want to thank you. You reminded me why I loved this place, something I may have forgotten over the years after my wife died. Go get a good night’s sleep. Alone.” He gives his younger son a pointed look and then turns back to me. “Tomorrow, send your resume to some other hotels, places that can use your enthusiasm and drive. Places without someone like him, lurking around. He’s toxic, and you deserve better than my son, and better than my hotel, which is probably doomed to failure now.”
Mr. Bancroft’s shoulders sag as he walks away.
He’s probably right. After that laugh, I think he’s almost definitely right. But somehow I can’t tear myself away from Cruise.
We stare at each other for a long moment, and then Cruise’s face hardens.
“You heard him,” he says finally. “You can do better. Don’t pretend I haven’t told you that, from the beginning.”
“I’ll get another job,” I say. “We’ll -- ”
“Maya,” he says, and I can tell from the sound of his voice. Now I know what it feels like when your heart breaks. “Look, as angry as it made me, Dad was right. You have such a bright future, but not with me.”
“But you said you –”
He flinches, remembering the words he just spoke. “It was a mistake.”
He reaches for me, but I yank my arm from his grasp. “Don’t even.”
He isn’t looking at me, so I know how hard this is for him. “Maybe I can build myself back up, and maybe you’ll let me keep your number, and I can let you know when I’m decent enough—”
It’s all nonsense, masculine nonsense, and after the night I’ve had I can’t listen to another word.
I want to ask him to repeat what he said earlier, but I know him well enough to be sure that he won’t say it again. Not now. Not when he’s being noble and telling me we can’t be together.
Why did Richard have to arrive on the stairway right then? Why couldn’t things have worked out, like the fairy tale I thought I was a part of, with my ball, and everything.
I try to move past him, but Cruise reaches out and pulls me toward him. I want to resist, but I’m not strong enough this time.
Cruise holds me while I cry. He wipes away my tears, but he doesn’t say anything to comfort me. We both know there’s nothing he can say.
Chapter 16
He walks me to my room, ignoring his father’s command to stay away from the hotel.
I don’t say goodbye. I don’t say anything. Instead, I just shut the door. I think I hear him call my name, but it could be my imagination.
I dress in pajamas and fall into bed.
But it’s no use. I can’t sleep.
I toss and turn for a few hours, until I can’t take it anymore. I don’t care how late it is – I dress in shorts and a t-shirt and head for the beach. I avoid the villas, going the other way down the sand. I walk and walk, pretending the salt water on my lips is spray from the ocean and not the tears sliding down my cheeks.
When I’m finally back to the hotel, the clock tells me it’s a little after 3am.
The oak door to the managerial office is open. I duck behind one of the big white pillars in the lobby, listening.
“Fuck you,” Cruise’s voice spews venom.
“It isn’t what it looks like,” Adrian whines.