FOUR

~Cora~

THE SUN POKED ITS WAY under my eyelids. It was not a comfortable feeling. Actually, not much was feeling comfortable. I stretched in the bed...but it wasn’t my bed. An avalanche of memories—fuzzy memories—dumped over my brain and landed in a lump in my throat.

I was in Dixon’s bed.

I’d hurt my ankle.

I’d had too much to drink. God, I hope I hadn’t said too much. A quick mental review reassured me that no major details had leaked out. But I flushed at the thoughts that I’d had about my rescuer. The very naughty thoughts.

I swiped at the gunk in the corner of my eyes and looked at the bedside table clock: 6:47. If I got up now, I’d have time to get to my car and get to my place, dignity mostly intact. If I timed it right, I could sneak in during the changing of the guard.

But first I had to make sure my ankle was up for the walk to the car. And that I could find my purse and phone. And what was I going to do about Dixon? Sneak out? Wake him up? Write a note or disappear forever? At that thought, my heart clenched. The memory of those blue eyes staring into my soul made the decision for me. I couldn’t just ghost him. Maybe there was room in my life for some fun; it didn’t have to be anything serious.

I pushed up and sat, swinging my legs down to the floor. A gentle pressure was followed by getting ready to fully stand up. Success! I could stand on my bare feet with no issues. Now the real test—those damn three-inch heels. They sat on the side of the bed, waiting to be strapped on and torture my footsies. Although, with the left one broken, walking would be a lopsided affair.

As I grabbed the current bane of my existence, it was clear the water and aspirin late last night had worked their magic. No headache, no stomach ache, no dizziness. I’d gotten lucky and the hangover gods had wreaked their worst on someone else last night. I shouldn’t have had that second, much less the third, beer. Maybe someday I’d build up a tolerance, but clearly I was still a lightweight. Oh well. There were worse things to be.

Like sneaking out of a man’s—a practical stranger’s—apartment, ready to do my walk of shame. Except, there was no shame. I hadn’t done anything wrong, despite any dirty thoughts that wandered through my drunken mind. And Dixon had kept to his word—no funny business from him. Although, maybe it would have been a little gratifying if he’d tried a little funny business.

I stood and put my full weight on my feet. Nothing more than a little discomfort, so I made my way to the closed door. I turned the handle slowly, aiming to be as quiet as possible.

Creak.

So much for that effort. The squeaky hinges gave me away. Or they would have, if the snoring man on the couch could have heard it over the sawing action going on. But I stopped in my tracks. Not from the squeaky hinge or the buzzing of Dixon’s snores. It was the man himself.

His long legs draped over the end of the couch—one over the arm and one that landed on the floor at a weird angle. An arm rested on his forehead, the other on his stomach. His bare stomach. His bare, muscled, six-pack stomach. His fingers were curled in the blanket twisted around his hips. A hint of a boxer band peeked through the folds of the blanket. The steady up and down of his breathing was accentuated when a snoring jag set in.

With his eyes closed, I could take my time looking at his face without being mesmerized by his gaze. There was a bit of stubble there, but also full lips. Kissable lips. Lips that could work magic. A mouth that could whisper sweet, dirty words full of teasing and then deliver on those promises.

“See anything you like?” Those lips lifted into a playful smile as he dropped his arm off his forehead. “Good morning, Cora. I’ve gotta say, it’s good to see you on your feet this morning. Any problems with the ankle? How’s your head?”

“G-Good morning.” Crap, he’d caught me. I guess either he wasn’t really sleeping or that damn hinge did give me away. “It all seems fine. You were right—a night of rest was all I needed. But I sure could use a coffee to wake myself up some more.” I looked away from his naked chest and toward the kitchenette. “Any chance there’s an espresso machine in there, ready to give me a caffeine boost?”

“Not exactly. I’ve got an electric kettle and instant coffee. Not sure there’s any creamer. Should be okay on sugar, though.” He sat up, the blanket still wrapped around his middle. His arms went up in the air, stretching overhead while he yawned. “Water might be better—get you hydrated, not dehydrated.” He moved to get up, and the blanket shifted on his lap.

Not ready for that sight—well, I wouldn’t really complain—I motioned for him to stay where he was and took the three steps into the kitchenette. “Maybe you’re right. Water sounds fine.” And would provide a quicker exit; no need to wait for water to heat up and make awkward small talk. Or avoid questions. Or make an idiot of myself and latch onto his shoulders and rub up against him. You know, typical morning activities. Or what sounded like fun morning activities. But I had a job to get to.

I grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and turned around, ready to make my escape. But I was caught in Dixon’s arms.

“Hey. You in a rush? How about some breakfast?”

“I-I’ve got to get going. Thanks, anyway. Actually, thanks for everything...last night...the ankle thing...the place to crash...” I blushed furiously, now even more aware of his bare chest and arms as he held me in a loose embrace. Thank God he had shorts on over those boxer briefs. Although now I could see his muscled legs.

I moved to get out of his arms, feeling the loss of his heat immediately. Before I could think too much of it, I stopped and looked him in the eyes. Blue pools of hazy heat caught fire and I couldn’t think for a second. Or two. Hell, it could have been sixty seconds, for all I knew. Like some kind of magic, words poured out of my mouth, surprising me. “I’ve got to go, but I’d like to see you again. No twisted ankles, no rescuing required. Call me, okay?” I rattled off my cell number and hustled to the door, breathless. A lightness grew in my chest. It felt right to tell Dixon I wanted to see him again, consequences be damned.

Just as I had my hand on the doorknob, he answered, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’d rescue you anytime, Cora. You can count on me, any day of the week.”

––––––––

IT WAS GOING TO BE difficult, but I was hoping against hope that I wouldn’t run into Wendy at the front desk. If I was lucky, I’d hit it just right and Jasper would still be on shift, waiting for her to show up.

I parked the car in my assigned spot and took a deep breath. A quick check in the rearview mirror for any wayward hair out of the hasty ponytail I put it in and I looked at my lips. The ones I wanted Dixon to kiss...to nibble... Ugh. I needed to get a grip. There was no room in my life right now for Dixon or any of the complications a new relationship would bring. So why did I give him my phone number? I remembered the way my heart pounded when he looked at me and how my body tingled at his slightest touch. I’d never felt that with anyone before, and I wanted more of it.

His parting words circled in my brain, like a kitty roller toy—round and round, unending. I wouldn’t mind some rescuing from certain parts of my life. But there was plenty of my life I liked, and plenty I was looking forward to. Once I made my plans more public—meaning, filling in my father and Mark on what I was going to do, regardless of what they thought I was going to do—I’d be doing my own rescuing of myself. In less than a year, I’d be turning twenty-six and it’d be Independence Day. No man needed. Just me, a bed-and-breakfast, and no one making decisions for me.

The front glass doors slid open as I approached.

“I guess you did do what I would have done,” Wendy chirped from the front desk.

Damn.

“For your information...” I paused and looked around for any other Stetson Suites employees. With the coast clear, I informed my best friend in what I hoped was a calm, normal voice, “No, this is not a walk of shame. I only spent the night there because I hurt my ankle. Damn heels got caught up in the dirt and down I went.”

Wendy snorted. “Sure. Shoe problems. Happens to me alllll the time.” She motioned me closer. “No, really. Tell me everything. Spare no detail.”

I pulled my shoes off my feet—barefoot in the lobby might not be the best idea, but it was time to stop walking on two different heel heights. “Seriously. Shoe problems.” I dangled the broken shoe in front of Wendy for effect. “No walk of shame. Now, I’m heading up to my place. I’ll tell you what there is to tell—which isn’t much—later. I’ve gotta hustle to grab a shower and then head next door before Dad gets in.” With that, I headed for the elevator.

One of the “perks” of being who I was—the only daughter of the owner of Stetson Suites—was a penthouse suite in the original namesake hotel. Yeah, it’s soooo hard to have room service and maid service. But there’s also the security cameras—so my father can find out my every move in and out of my apartment...and who is coming or going—not to mention the staff watching everything I do. God only knew who reported to him on all the gossip about me, but someone did. There was no way he could know the things he did without somebody telling him, and it sure wasn’t me. It wasn’t a big deal most of the time; the most salacious thing that ever happened was a late night out with Wendy.

It wasn’t Wendy, though. We’d met in college eight years ago during our freshman year and had some hospitality courses together. She’d been a whiz at the restaurant management class I struggled with, and I helped her with the marketing classes. We were as thick as thieves, and we each kept the other’s secrets. Nope, it was someone else on staff, looking to brown-nose, who’d leak details to my dad.

But no time to worry about that now. I plucked my key out of my purse and let myself in. The car keys landed in the bowl in the entryway and I took a moment to gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the view of downtown. The spring morning was well on its way, and I needed to get a move on to beat Dad to the office.

After a shower—a pure bliss of hot water, soapy suds, and a massaging shower head—I pulled my hair up into my “professional” look of twisted up on my head in a bun. Original, I know, but simple and classic. Add in the boring, traditional charcoal-colored pencil skirt, white blouse, and low heels, and I was now your average office drone. Even if I was the boss’s daughter.

I didn’t have much to compare it to, but my commute—which consisted of out the door, to the elevator, down to the lobby, out the doors, crossing the street, entering a lobby, heading up an elevator, and getting out on the seventh floor—was brief. No time to listen to more than one song; no podcasts or radio talk shows. But also no traffic jams or speeding tickets, no accidents.

After the break-in at our family home, my father insisted I move into Stetson Suites. My mother had been home alone—I was a freshman in college and Dad was traveling—when the intruders broke down the door. The aftermath—her coma for six months and subsequent death, the trial of the suspects, the appeals of the convictions—had my father stressed out and worried.

He wasn’t the only one. I almost flunked out my freshman year. The only reason I didn’t was because Wendy made sure I had notes for classes I missed, and did her best to keep me on track. She even took me to her home for school breaks, and was there for every breakdown—in the middle of the day or the dead of night. Wendy did everything my mother would have done for me if she were alive.

My father threw himself even more into running the business. He stopped visiting the campus and our sporadic contact became almost nonexistent. The only thing he did insist on was that I had to let his office know whenever I left campus, and then he arranged for me to live at Stetson Suites after graduation. I could count the number of times we spoke in person in the four years of college on one hand, with the occasional text wishing me a happy birthday or a Merry Christmas.

By moving from my college dorm right into Stetson Suites (both the job and a place in the hotel), I hoped to keep my father happy. It was a simple solution. Besides, I had no desire to go back to the home that no longer felt safe, where my mother had effectively been taken from our lives. I wasn’t even sure Dad spent nights there anymore, either.

After a quick wave to Wendy at the front desk, I made my way across the street to Stetson Suites corporate headquarters. I started to think about the projects on my plate...but Dixon kept popping into my head. Dixon seemed like a great guy, but I needed to focus on work. Not his piercing gaze. Or gentle hands on my leg. Or the way he tucked me in last night...

The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor. The serene, quiet atmosphere settled my mind and turned on my concentration. I was working on a huge presentation for the upcoming social media ad campaign, something my father didn’t see the value in. He’d built up the hotel chain on traditional ad campaigns—print, radio, television—but he had yet to explore what he could achieve with a more contemporary outlook.

I’d loved my marketing classes at Cornell, so working in the marketing department was a natural fit for me. But I wasn’t one to coast in on my last name, despite Mark’s opinion of my contributions to the company. For someone who wasn’t directly involved in the hotel business—he was one of the outside legal team my father used, as well as the son of my father’s best friend—he had an opinion about everything and never worried himself about whether he had any right to express those opinions. And the fact that my father was pushing some kind of “alliance” between our two families also meant Mark had no problem expressing his opinion about my life and how it should conform to his expectations.

Fortunately, Maeve, the department VP, treated me like every other staff member in the department, even if hiring me hadn’t exactly been her choice. And she was committed to moving the company in the right direction—the future, that is—and hoped that having the boss’s daughter give the presentation to the senior executives would at least mean they’d be willing to listen.

I popped my head in Maeve’s office. “Hey, I’m going to have a draft ready for you later today or tomorrow. I need a few graphics and to run the text through another set of eyes to proof it.”

Maeve stared at me over her glasses low on her nose. “Fine. We can do a run-through tomorrow at...” She glanced at her computer. “How’s two sound?” She had her hands ready to enter the time on her schedule.

“Perfect.” I made a mental note to add that to my calendar and headed to my office.

My low heels hardly made a noise as I walked down the hall, but Dad still heard me.

“Cora. Good morning.”

His office door was fully open, so there was no way to avoid stopping or pretending I didn’t hear him. I could only hope his spies were behind the times and hadn’t updated him on my late—early?—arrival back home. I was an adult, and it was annoying that my father still kept tabs on me as if I were a teenager who’d taken the family car for a joyride and couldn’t be trusted.

“Hi, Dad.” I stepped into the plush office.

He sat behind his mahogany desk, a single computer screen and keyboard on the surface. Although he smiled at me, I couldn’t see anything but a man crushed by time and circumstance. He looked every one of his fifty-seven years...and maybe a few more, too. The light I had seen there as a kid was gone—long gone—and now all he had in his eyes were expectations. Ones I wasn’t willing to fulfill.

“I hear that social media thing you’ve been wasting your time on is up for discussion soon. I don’t see why Maeve pushed you to do this. Everything is fine the way it is...it’s always worked for us before.”

“Dad, we can’t get stuck in the past. There’re ways to incorporate these new strategies without a huge impact on the stuff you’ve always done. It’s not a total replacement, just a way to reach out to a younger generation, become their hotel of choice...build their loyalty when they are young so we’ll have a future client base. You want the company to be around for another fifty years, right?” He’d resist change, but he would also fight tooth and nail to ensure the company was viable for future generations...which was a sticking point on my end of things. But one battle at a time, right?

He grunted. “Well, I guess we’ll see what you’ve come up with and go from there.”

Hardly a ringing endorsement, but I’d take what I could get on this fight.

“So, will you be at the club tonight? I hear the Franklins are hosting a dinner. Maybe tonight will be the night Mark finally gets you to agree to marry him.”

Ugh. And here was another battle. One I wasn’t able to side-step, much less win, this morning. Or ever. He’d been banging this drum ever since I had agreed to that first date with Mark. “I have other plans tonight. Mark knew that a few weeks ago, so he didn’t invite me to his parents’ dinner tonight.” I purposely didn’t address the marriage part of his question. “What charitable cause are they championing tonight? Debutantes Without Prospects? A shelter for pampered princesses who break their nails?”

I couldn’t help the snark. Mark was insufferable, but he came by it honestly. His parents were the most hoity-toity people I’d ever met, only concerned with their status and bank account. And their tax write-offs. A by-product of being lawyers, I guess. His father, Martin, was the corporate lawyer for Stetson Suites—and my father’s college roommate, best man, and best friend. His mother, Lila, handled international law for their law firm, Franklin, Franklin, and Langdon.

A stern look was his only response. Figuring I’d pushed past my limits, I turned and waved goodbye to him before I was out his door.