It Will Always Be You (You Series Book 1) (2 page)

After the redesign, Kiki, the hotel owner, was short staffed and offered me a job. The prospect of a stable, full-time job versus the random interior design jobs seemed too good to pass up at that time in my life since it was only going to be temporary, until I was sure Gavin’s pilot job would be as lucrative as promised. I became a front desk clerk, and four years later, I’m still here, only now I’m Elizabeth Murphy, guest services manager.

I was relieved that I was able to keep busy after Krystal left, but then it dawned on me—I may not have anyone to bring up towels at this time in the evening. I can only hope that someone from housekeeping is still here. I call the maintenance room, hoping that someone—anyone—is in. I fidget with the silver spinning ring on my middle finger. My sister brought the ring back for me from France, where she studied during her junior year of college. The ring has the words
Always Sisters, Forever Friends
engraved on it, and it means the world to me. My behavior around Marshall today would have had Rose in stitches. I can hear her voice saying, “Lizzie, what the hell was that? How will we ever get you hitched if you can’t even talk to a guy?”

Please pick up, please pick up.
The phone rings for what feels like an eternity. I sigh deeply, knowing what I have to do.

I run to my purse in the office behind the front desk area, then dig for my favorite MAC lipstick—Spirit—one of my splurges I couldn’t let go of after my breakup with Gavin. Looking for a mint or a piece of gum somewhere in my mess of a purse, I keep digging until I feel a wrapper. I pop my very last mint into my mouth and head to the laundry room for some towels, saying a prayer that my savior would be here to save me from further humiliation.

I’m not so lucky. I grab two clean towels off the shelf and make my way to the elevator.

On the way up, I check myself in the reflective elevator door. I flip my head upside down, working my fingers roughly over my scalp to add a little volume to my long, wavy red locks.
Well, that’s a little better at least.

The elevator door opens, and I stand up straighter, bringing my shoulders back in an attempt to look taller. I have always had an issue with my height. I’m five feet seven inches, above average height for a woman, but given my athletic build—a result of my love of exercise—I have always felt if I were taller, I would at least appear to be more slender, like Rose, who has two whole inches on me. That girl’s luck in life started in utero.

Stepping out of the elevator, I turn left and head for the Lakeview Penthouse Suite. I swallow hard at the thought of coming face-to-face with this beautiful man and dread who else might be behind his door.

I knock and stand frozen, waiting. I glance up at the peephole.
What if he’s watching me?
Here we go again. I feel my armpits dampen, and my heart is racing. The door swings open.

“Hello, Elizabeth.” He appears surprised to see me.

My gaze travels down to the towels.
Speak, Elizabeth, speak.
“Two more towels for you, Mr. Roderick.” I extend my arms but don’t look up. My eyes are fixated on his bare feet and rolled dark jeans, which are damp at the ankle.

“Very nice of you to deliver them. I suppose there isn’t much staff this time of night.” His cheerful voice brings my eyes farther up his body to where his dress shirt sleeves are rolled up.

“Plus this place is pretty dead on Thursday nights in May,” I say, shaking with nerves as I bring my eyes to his. I focus on his long eyelashes and pale blue eyes, the eyes I first noticed looking at me two years ago, the eyes I’ve felt upon me many times since then, even though I never had the courage to acknowledge them.

“It’s still a bit cold on the north shore in May, so I suppose business is slower.” He tips his head to find my eyes, which have wandered to the subtle dimple on his chin. I hadn’t noticed it until just now.

Does he want to keep talking? Doesn’t he need to get back to his date?
My stomach clenches at the thought. “Yeah, but it picks up again in June. That’s when we have the big music festival,” I offer as he turns to set down the towels on the table next to the door. I scan the room in search of a woman’s presence. My eyes widen in horror as I spot a lump in the bed and a cluster of blond hair peaking out over the top of the covers. Someone is here in his bed. I keep staring. I can’t look away.
Why am I so surprised? He said he missed all his beautiful ladies. How many does he have?

“Yeah, I do recall an impressive turnout for the music festival last year,” he says, turning back toward the door.

I’m still staring at the bed. I feel my face burning. It takes every bit of strength I have to look up at him, knowing my face is beet red.

“You were there? So was I,” I manage to get out. But I know very well he was here during that time. I remember seeing him leaving that morning for a run and wishing I was out on the trail, not stuck behind a desk for the day.

“Oh, man, that ten-piece band with all those horns that played last was amazing. I wish they were in the lineup for this year too. I made sure to book a room early so I wouldn’t miss out.”

I glance back over at the bed before speaking. “They were pretty great. So anyway, I better get back to work.” I start to turn away but quickly turn back to him. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Roderick?” I feel instantly proud of myself for finishing our conversation on a professional note.

Just now, a beautiful, tall, slender blond steps out from the bathroom. She’s wearing a lovely pale-blue silk shirt with a black belt cinched at the waist, black leggings, and a pair of high-heeled boots that stop a few inches below her knees. She is breathtaking.

“Marshall, have you seen my phone? It was—” Seeing me, she stops mid-sentence.

I can feel the color leave my face, and my knees feel like they might give out.

“Oh, hi there,” she says. “Sorry if I interrupted you.”

Gorgeous and polite. I can’t compete with that. Not that I’m in the running.
I’ve got to get out of here.

“I think we’re set. Thank you, Elizabeth.” His cheerfulness seems to have faded a bit. He’s in heaven with Miss Mile-Long Legs, and I can’t begin to imagine what the one in his bed looks like. No wonder he needed more towels. A ménage à trois can get messy, I’d imagine. My stomach does a flip.

“Enjoy your evening, Mr. Roderick.” I give a businesslike nod, turn, and walk away, wishing—even if only for a moment—that he’d stop me and invite me in.

I stand next to my silver Ford Escape in the crisp May air in the parking lot across the street from Beacon Pointe, car keys in hand, going over the events from today. I can’t help but wonder, Why on earth would Marshall Roderick give any of his attention to an awkward redheaded girl who works as a manager at a resort when he has Miss Mile-Long Legs?

I grimace and unlock my door, further annoyed that I still haven’t gotten my keyless entry keypad fixed. I throw my purse onto the passenger seat, climb in, and slip the key into the ignition. The radio comes on loud. Wow, singing along to the radio with the windows rolled down on my way to work feels like forever ago, not just eight hours of the most awkward work shift of a lifetime. I’d even broken out the air guitar, making me long once again to feel my fingers glide along my guitar strings. I need to remember to grab it from my old bedroom next time I’m at my parents’ house.

Now I have two options: a hot bath and a book or open mic night with Krystal and her clan. The possibility of having one more embarrassing moment today decides the winner, and I put my car in gear. At least at home I can’t make a fool of myself.

I haven’t even left the parking lot before my phone rings. I grab for my purse, making a mental note to clean it out tomorrow, and struggle through the mess before fishing out my phone. I sigh, seeing Krystal’s name, knowing very well that she can always talk me into going out. She is a very persuasive woman.

“Hello, Krystal,” I growl.

“Uh oh, Lizzie, by the sound of your voice, your day didn’t get much better. You must need a drink.” I hear her suck in a drag of her cigarette.

The vision of Miss Mile-Long Legs jumps into my mind, making me cringe.

“I think I’m just going to head home.” Why do I even bother? I know she will talk me into stopping for a drink, even though all I really want to do is go home, drink wine, wallow, and perhaps cozy up with a friend from my nightstand drawer.

“The good-looking bartender is on tonight, and he asked where my redheaded friend was.” I can hear her smile.

“Bullshit he did,” I snap.

“Would I joke about something like that?” She giggles.

“Um, yes. You would.”

“I swear I’m not messing with you, Lizzie. He did ask about you. Besides, what’s your plan? Go home, take a bath, mope, and drink a bottle of cheap red wine?”

She does, in fact, know me, although my taste for wine isn’t often cheap. One good thing Gavin taught me was how to pick a fine wine.

“Get your butt over here. You don’t even work tomorrow, so you have all day to mope.”

I know she’s right. I will get home, sink deep into the tub, pour glass after glass of wine until the bottle is empty, and stumble out of the tub, feeling even more sorry for myself and wishing I would have gone out. Then I’ll pathetically pleasure myself with a toy that’s only ever been in my own hands.

“Fine. I’ll go,” I say in a pouty voice that only makes Krystal laugh.

“You’ll be glad you did once you’ve laid eyes on the cute bartender.” She sounds pleased with herself for having talked me out of heading home.

“See you in a few minutes,” I groan while a knowing smile crosses my lips.

I roll my windows down and crank up the radio before I leave the lot. Music can always calm my nerves. Krystal is still outside smoking as I pull into the lot. She is talking to some spikey-haired guy with a bright blue electric guitar strapped across his back. I recognize him from past open mic nights.

I make my way to the top of the parking ramp overlooking Lake Superior. I luck out finding a spot right by the stairs heading down to the building’s entrance. Putting the car in park, then resting my head on the headrest, I close my eyes for a few moments to mentally prepare myself for the night.

When I have hung out with Krystal and her clan in the past, it has been quite an experience. Last time, a few of the girls wound up on the bar with a line of guys doing body shots off their bellies. I’d resisted the urge, but after a few more cocktails, I’d considered it. Some misplaced-looking guy at the nightclub had been eyeing me up that night. He butted into my conversations more than once. Krystal kept telling him to back off and leave me alone. As Krystal and I were leaving the bar that night, he grabbed my ass. “I bet you redheads are a wild ride in the sack,” he said. I was so caught off guard that I swung my heavy purse at him, hitting him on the side of the head. The blow sent him stumbling into a group of guys, causing them to spill their drinks. The guys looked none too happy. He swore at me, calling me a crazy psycho bitch. As he approached me again, I kneed him in the nuts, leaving the bar roaring with laughter. It served the guy right for sneaking up on me and grabbing me like some piece of meat. I don’t care for being called a bitch, either. He threw several other choice words my way before yelling that he would make me pay, whatever that meant.

The idea of running into that scumbag again makes my skin crawl, but I grab my purse anyway and step out of the car, pressing the lock button before closing the door. I head for the ramp steps and down to the brick building’s side entrance, where Krystal and the spikey-haired guy are still smoking and carrying on. There is a group cheering and laughing on the deck that overlooks the lake. It’s a great place to sit and eat, but at this time of night (and with no moon), it’s just a black landscape with nothing but the twinkle of city lights upon the waves.

“Hey, Lizzie, glad you decided to come have some fun.” Krystal winks.

The spikey-haired guy turns to me and smiles, then flicks his cigarette butt into the brick wall and heads back in.
Grr
, it makes me nuts how people can have such little regard for our environment. Krystal hooks her arm through mine, hoping I hadn’t noticed Spikey’s disregard, and we head in.

There are shops, restaurants, a hotel, and a nightclub within these brick walls. We head up the steps, down a long hall, and into the bar. Across the hall from the Brewhouse, the nightclub is bumping. I can’t help but have a quick scan of the nightclub, recalling the body shots and the creepy guy eyeing me all night. The place is packed and in full party swing. I’m relieved that the Brewhouse is the choice tonight. More laid back, which I much prefer. We make a beeline for the bar.

Krystal looks back at me. “Big ginger, right?”

I nod. She knows this is one of my favorites. She orders up two big ginger cocktails from the blond waitress who appears to be covering the bar at the time, and we head over to sit with Krystal’s clan at a round table near the entrance. It’s a small place, but they manage to fit a tiny stage in the corner. The stage can accommodate no more than three musicians at a time, and if you get these big, burly blues singers up there, then you’re lucky to fit more than one. There is a long-haired blond man playing an acoustic guitar and a short, stocky brunette on stage belting out a Janice Joplin tune.

Everybody is laughing at our table as we take our seats. I look around and see Greg, Krystal’s partner in crime and friend from high school. He’s always telling jokes and making people laugh. He has been a rock for Krystal since her divorce, offering up his spare bedroom and insisting she pay nothing. He had also become friends with Krystal’s ex-husband over the years. But that ended the night Greg was driving by Ross and Krystal’s house and spotted Ross bringing a woman inside on a night when Krystal was scheduled for the overnight shift.

It was Greg who called Krystal to inform her of what he saw, without giving Ross the benefit of a doubt. Krystal and I were working together that night. She’d had her suspicions of his infidelity, and she asked if I could cover for her while she ran home to see for herself. Sure enough, she found him in their living room, getting a blowjob from some young girl with purple-streaked hair. He had tied her hands behind her back and bound her ankles. This made for an interesting situation when the girl couldn’t get up and run; she had to kneel there on the floor, bound, while Krystal grabbed a duffel bag and filled it with her things, room by room.

Ross had followed behind Krystal, begging her not to go, insisting that this was the first and last time he had cheated, but Krystal knew deep down that this wasn’t the case. She just turned and walked out the door, never looking back. Greg went to her house to get the rest of her things when he knew Ross wasn’t home. I admired her courage to just leave. I’d offered Krystal my spare bedroom, but she had already agreed to stay with Greg.

Tragically, Krystal’s heartbreak hadn’t ended there. A week after she and Ross split, her father and brother were in a construction accident. Her father was found dead, and her brother was in critical condition. Thankfully, her brother had survived, but Krystal was the one who held everything together when her mother had a nervous breakdown. The girl has had it rough, but you would never know it.

Greg sits forward in his chair and rests his elbows on the table. “Hello, Lizzie,” he says kindly. “So glad you’re joining us. Wasn’t sure we’d see you again after that freak attacked you last time.”

Everyone’s eyes are on me. I take a quick sip of my big ginger. “He didn’t necessarily
attack
me.”

“Right, you attacked him,” exclaims Krystal. “Apparently all that kickboxing you do has paid off.”

“Yep. I’m a pretty big bad ass,” I say, grinning.

Everybody laughs.

Krystal nudges me with her shoulder. “Lizzie, the workout queen. I can hardly ever get her to come out. She might miss one of her morning workouts.”

“I myself was born with big guns.” Greg flexes his unimpressive muscles. “Good genes, I guess.” He kisses each muscle.

“Not much to brag about in those jeans,” Krystal says, smirking.

Greg looks very amused. “I would break you in two.”

Krystal tips her head back and laughs devilishly. “It’s you who would be broken in two.”

“Oh, my dear, I can certainly handle a spinner.”

“Oh, shit, Greg, you’ve done it now,” I interject. Krystal may be petite, but she won’t tolerate being called a spinner.

Krystal rises from her chair, arms crossed, and makes her way around the table. She leans forward toward his ear. “Oh, Gregory, you don’t have it in you. I would have you begging for mercy before the fun even started. You, my friend, could not handle me.” She says it loud enough so we can all hear, and then she bites his ear.

The table roars with laughter. She saunters back to her chair.

Watching the two of them tease each other, I can’t help but wish my good friend could find someone much like Greg, but someone, of course, who is into the opposite sex. Greg is without a doubt into men.

Krystal goes out to smoke. I’m the only one not in conversation at the table, but I don’t mind. The music and my thoughts carry me away. There’s a chunky blond girl from the group who’s sitting on some guy’s lap at a table nearby. Her heavy-lidded eyes and bobbing head are clear signs she’s intoxicated, but she has been that way every time I’ve seen her. We have hardly said two words to each other. Ben and Anna, the dark-haired couple sitting awkwardly close to one another, are engaged in conversation with Greg on the other side of the table.

The music is a welcomed distraction. I’m reminded again of my shiny red guitar perched on its stand in the corner of my old bedroom. I learned to play when I was twelve and always loved to sing, but my skills never left the campfire, and I’ve never known for sure if I was any good since my family was my only critic. I sure did love it, though. My family would always beg me to play and sing at gatherings. The older I got, the more reluctant I became to oblige them.

I can feel the effects of my second big ginger coming on, and after the day I’ve had, I don’t care how I might feel tomorrow if I keep tipping them back. I’ve had my first official conversation with Marshall Roderick, but I froze like a scared idiot when he came to check in. What was my deal? Why does he make me feel so insecure?

“Hey, Lizzie.” Krystal comes up behind me. “Two spots opened up at the bar. Let’s go chat it up with the cute bartender.”

“I’m fine right here listening to the music.” I don’t look at her because I know she’s rolling her eyes at me.

“Liz, we need to get you laid.”

I scowl. “Jeez, Krystal, you really do have a one-track mind.”

“And damn proud of it.” She grins. “Now get off your ass before someone steals our spots.”

She grabs my arm, and we head to the bar.

The cute bartender has his back to us when we take our seats. He’s engaged in conversation with a couple I’d guess were in their early sixties. As he pours a few pints of beer from the tap, his T-shirt exposes a tattoo of what I conclude to be a cross on his firm bicep. His hair is slicked back with its usual over-gelled shininess, and his blue polo shirt is tucked perfectly into his faded blue jeans, which he fills out very well, all the way down to his navy blue Converse. He turns and gives us a wink before setting the pints in front of a waitress. “I’ll be right with you, ladies.”

I pull out my lip balm and add a thin layer before hanging my purse on the hook under the bar. I’m hardly even nervous about the idea of meeting a new guy, which is so odd since I can hardly even spit out a full sentence when Marshall is in the vicinity.

I force a flirtatious smile as the bartender comes to stand before us.

We order up two big gingers. Krystal talks about some blues tune I know nothing about. Apparently, some guy came in last week and got several of the words wrong, which made her, she says, “cray cray.”

“Well, Lizzie,” Krystal says before clearing her throat. “Elizabeth”—she winks at me, knowing that I don’t care which form of my name she uses—“is a good singer, although her taste in music is debatable.”

I hit her on the arm. “Wow, thanks, Krystal.”

“What kinds of music do you like”—she glances at his name tag—“Peter?”

Peter grins at me. “I like all different kinds of music.” His answer annoys me a bit. I can tell he’s just trying not to be biased. I find it hard to believe he listens to everything from classical to death metal, but hey, you never know. I just appreciate a man who knows what he likes.