The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(3)
“I remember when my youngest was that age.” He peels a bill off the stack of cash in his hand, and I pretend not to notice. First, because it’s unbecoming behavior for an Aquamarine employee. Second, because it still boggles my mind that someone could have that much cash casually sitting in their pocket. Blackwell has hundreds, while I’m lucky if I have a quarter for the Aldi shopping cart. He says, “She was hell on wheels.”
“I’ve been fortunate so far.” I tap my knuckles lightly on the desk. “Maisie is an awesome kid.”
“With a mother like you, how could she be anything else?” Blackwell leans in, pressing the money into my palm with one hand as the other comes to rest between my hip and my ass. “Have a bottle of Macallan and a cigar—nothing cheap—sent to my bungalow, will you, sweetheart?”
“Certainly, sir.” I take a step back before his touch can become a grope. “Right away.”
Blackwell makes a low, satisfied hum in his throat that kind of creeps me out, and winks. “Such a good girl.”
He saunters in the direction of the doors leading outside to the bungalows. As Peter Rhys-Blackwell encounters go, this one wasn’t too icky. I glance down to find a one-hundred-dollar bill in my hand. There’s no rule that says I can’t accept tips, but I don’t feel completely comfortable keeping this much money. Except, Maisie’s birthday is coming up, and she’s been begging for a bike with training wheels. I tuck the cash into the pocket of my uniform skirt. I’ll decide later.
Ordinarily I’d notify the bar manager of Blackwell’s request and he’d have someone from his staff deliver, but it’s Friday night, and the bar is crowded. Instead I double-check the portal to see which brand of cigar Blackwell prefers and then add it to his room charge, along with the bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey, and prepare the room service tray myself.
The air is pleasantly cool as I wheel a wooden bar cart along the bungalow path, and the sound of the waves washing against the dark, empty shore is soothing. There’s too much ambient light to see more than a few stars, but there’s a kind of peace that comes with knowing they’re up there all the same, moving steadily across the night sky. That if you get lost, the stars will guide you home.
I knock on the bungalow door. “It’s Rachel with your room service.”
The door opens and Blackwell stands in front of me with his Hawaiian shirt hanging open, his hairy belly peeking through the space between. Not something I’ve ever wanted to see, but at least he’s still wearing his shorts. The housekeepers claim he sits around in his underwear while they clean his room. Blackwell steps aside and gestures me forward. “I didn’t expect you to be my delivery girl. Come in! Come in!”
I roll the cart into the suite.
“Pour me a glass, would you?” Blackwell asks, picking up the cigar. He takes a sniff. Seemingly satisfied, he rejects the cigar cutter I provided and pulls a small metal knife from his pocket. He opens the blade and slides the end of the cigar through a hole in the handle, then closes the blade, slicing off the tip. People I know don’t smoke fancy cigars much less have their own cutters, so the whole process is kind of fascinating. He glances up to see me watching him. “Have you ever smoked a cigar?”
“I haven’t.” I turn my attention to the Macallan bottle as he holds a match to the cigar, his cheeks puffing in and out until the tobacco catches the flame.
Blackwell holds the smoldering cigar out. “Wanna try?”
I crinkle my nose. “No, thank you. How do you take your whiskey?”
“Got any of those little stones?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect.”
I open the ice bucket and use a pair of tongs to place a few of the chilled whiskey stones in a glass, followed by a generous pour. I’m surprised to find the liquor smells like campfire and cinnamon. I thought it would smell like … I don’t know … gasoline or something equally flammable. Rich people always seem to love the most disgusting-sounding things, like truffles, caviar, and soup made of dried bird saliva.
“Do you live around here, Rachel?” Blackwell asks as I offer him the glass.
“Fort Lauderdale.”
“I have a friend who lives up that way,” he says. “You familiar with Seven Isles at all?”
Seven Isles is a neighborhood of multimillion-dollar homes with swimming pools and waterfront views. I bite back a laugh at the idea that I would know someone who lives in that neighborhood, but I can’t stop myself from smiling. “I’ve passed through on my way to the beach. I mean, it’s kind of low-rent.”
Blackwell chuckles, rattling the stones in the glass as he points at me. “You’re sharp. I like you.”
“Thank you,” I say, relieved that he’s being charming and friendly. “Well, I should get back to work. Is there anything else you need, Mr. Rhys-Blackwell?”
He takes a big slug of whiskey and places the glass on the bar cart. “You could stay.”
I laugh. “What?”
“Have a drink with me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t, sir,” I say, adding a touch of regret that I don’t really mean. “It’s against the rules.”
He gives me a conspiratorial grin. “Break the rules.”
“I really ca—” His lips mash against mine and his hands grab great handfuls of my ass. It happens so quickly, it hardly seems real. Until his tongue pushes into my mouth and he rubs himself against my pelvis. I shove him away and he staggers back a couple of steps.