EXCERPT 1
By the time I start my new job a week after my coffee-shop encounter with Lloyd and Susie, I’m starting to feel more optimistic about things. My new boss, Hanna, hooked me up with a swanky room in the Hott Springs Eternal lodge; I’ve deleted all Lloyd’s emails, texts, and photos; and I’ve pawned all the jewelry he gave me.

I’m not sleeping great, and I’m still a little weepy…but you can’t have it all.

I poke my head into Hanna’s office and say, “Hey!”

“Oh, hi, Natalie. Come in.”

I can tell right away that something’s off. She doesn’t sound as brimming with enthusiasm as she did when she called to let me know I had the job or when we talked about my lodging. But I tell myself it’s nothing to do with me—probably a bridezilla situation from earlier in the morning—and step inside.

“Good to see you.” She waves me into a chair across from her. “I have some paperwork for you to fill out, but first I wanted to have a word with you.”

She rearranges a stack of papers, and I realize she’s nervous. Which means the “something off” I observed when I first walked in? Probably does have to do with me.

Shit. “Everything okay?”

I don’t know what I’ll do if this job falls through. Things are over with Lloyd, and it’s a huge understatement to say my parents aren’t my first choice of roommates. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that the idea of asking them for any kind of favor makes me feel like throwing up. Which is why I have to save the money to go back to school.

And even if my housing situation weren’t at stake, I want this job. Yeah, it’s not on the long-term Get Serious path, but it’s totally up my alley. I love people and I love, well, fun—and this is a job where I get to make sure people have fun. Nothing else I’ve applied for sounds like something I want to do.

“I have so many great ideas for how to make Hott Springs Eternal a true destination!” I blurt out, sounding like a bad cover letter—as if that’s going to keep her from delivering whatever bad news is on the tip of her tongue.

She winces, and…I do, too. She looks away, and shit. Shit shit shit.

“It’s complicated,” she says, still not making eye contact. “Nothing to panic about, but there’s a—twist.”

“A twist,” I repeat. That doesn’t sound good.

“I’m really sorry about this bait and switch, but my hands are totally tied. I know I hired you to be the sole person in this position, but, well…God, how do I explain this?”

She’s not making any sense, and apparently my face betrays my confusion and worry because she says, “Wait, let me start from the beginning.”

But just then, her eyes leave my face and fix on something behind me. “Oh, hey,” she says.

I turn to see a man standing in the office door, towing a rolling suitcase behind him. He’s tall and broad-chested, wearing a gorgeous gray linen suit whose expensive tailoring flaunts the strength in his shoulders and biceps. His brown-and-burgundy power tie is cinched up tight against his strong, tanned throat. A half day of dark stubble coats his iron jaw, his cheekbones were carved from stone, and he’s scowling like he just found out his bespoke-suit maker has gone out of business.

My mouth goes dry, and my thighs get hot.

I may have read a little too much “You liked Fifty Shades? Try this!” romance at a formative age.

My eyes go to his hands.

No ring.

Yes, I checked. The universe has spontaneously served me up a Hot Man in a Suit. I challenge any single, straight woman with a pulse not to try to figure out if this guy’s married.

Although it’s pointless.

Because things never work out between men like him and women like me. They’re all business, and I’m a party. They take themselves and everything else seriously, and I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.

But it doesn’t stop me from having to wipe imaginary drool from both corners of my mouth.

It might be the stern look and the crease between his dark eyebrows. The set of his jaw or the harsh twist of his lush mouth.

Whatever it is, I have to force my eyes away from him and back to my boss’s face.

Which is pained.

Whatever the bad news is, it involves this man. And that makes sense because no matter what happens next, I already know he’s bad news for me.

“Preston,” Hanna says, “this is Natalie Archer. I’ve, er, hired her to be Hott Springs Eternal’s activities coordinator.”

His scowl deepens, making my heart beat faster, out of both fear and lust.

“That’s unfortunate,” he says.

Yikes.

Nice to meet you, too, Preston.

 

EXCERPT 2
“Try Everything” by Shakira comes on. This song always makes me want to dance. It’s my girl-power anthem, for when I’m feeling like I need a lift.

Time for a pump up.

I wiggle my hips. Do a little shimmy, setting the girls in motion. For better or for worse, and it depends on the day, my bra size delves deep into the alphabet, so there is plenty of motion. I grab the tall floor lamp and execute a pole maneuver. Okay, so floor lamps aren’t intended for pole dancing, but I’ll make it work.

Whew. I’m already sweating. I was in pretty good shape when I was working at the nursing home. I always took the stairs, never the elevator, and did a lot of active stuff with the residents. But since then, I’ve been spending too much time sitting at a desk combing through job listings and tweaking my resume to try to get results. I shed my socks, and then—okay, what the hell, I’m wearing a bra—tunic, too. Now I’m in just cropped black leggings and my favorite bra—black, plenty of support, but also loads of lace and frills.

I’m starting to feel more like myself.

I decide maybe I need my favorite party shoes. Hot-pink, spike-heeled, closed-toe sandals. They look great with tight, ankle-length jeans, but for now, they’ll be fine with leggings.

YES.

I close the two tiny clasps and admire the strappy pink result.

Walk the Moon’s “Work This Body” comes on, and perfect.

My hairbrush is a microphone, the lamp’s my pole, this room is my court where I will beat whoever it is fair and square (Lloyd) and—

Damn. The ache is back.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I turn the music up one more notch. I eye the desk.

It looks pretty sturdy.

I use the ottoman as a step, and—

Now I’m not in my room. Instead, I’m dancing on a bar in my spiky hot-pink heels. Mirror behind me.

I have my earbuds jammed in and my eyes closed, which is why it takes me a while to notice that—

Preston Hott is standing in the door of my room.

He’s carved out of long, lean, well-proportioned muscle, which is more obvious now because he’s taken off his suit jacket and draped it over the suitcase behind him, and his hand is frozen on one partially rolled sleeve. My eyes are drawn there tractor-beam style because that is quite possibly the best forearm I have ever seen. His tie is loose now, his hair rumpled—and holy shit, if he looked good buttoned up, he looks even better now.

Except I know he’s the devil.

Plus he’s caught me dancing on a hotel desk. And as previously noted, there’s lots of me on display. Not to mention the spiky heels, the high drama lip syncing, the general bouncing, and all the fuck you I’m powerful gestures aimed at Lloyd.

Plus, mirror behind me, so: double view.

My cheeks go red hot.

Okay. Two options here.

Die of embarrassment, or…

Try my damnedest to play it cool.

I jam the pause button, tip an earbud out, and slide myself down from the bar—desk—with as much dignity as I can muster.

“I guess you’re not room service,” I say.