It Will Always Be You (You Series Book 1) (5 page)

Saturday, May 22

Starting work at five in the morning is always painful, but after all the tossing and turning I did last night, today feels unusually brutal. The torrential rain isn’t helping either. I have to make a mad dash into work from the employee parking lot. After an unsuccessful attempt to jump over an enormous puddle, my right tennis shoe is thoroughly drenched and making an unpleasant squishy sound. The black and pink paisley umbrella I got from Rose on our last birthday is deemed useless as the high winds shoot giant drops of water violently into my face.

Last June had been hot for our twenty-sixth birthday party. Growing up, not only did we need to share
our
birthday with each other, but we also have two cousins with June birthdays. Every year, my mother and her sister, Margaret, plan a party with our family. Cake and ice cream, piñatas, and punch were replaced with margaritas, beer, and a beanbag-toss tournament once my youngest cousin, Bo, turned eighteen. Every year, we tell them “no more parties,” but Mom and Margaret say, “It’s a great excuse for our family to get together,” which I can’t dispute. We always do have a lot of fun. This year will be our twenty-seventh birthday. There’s no telling what my mother and Margaret have planned; nothing small, I’m sure. I haven’t spoken with my mother in a few days, which usually means she is busy planning something. For a woman who is not a fan of surprises, she sure does like to treat others to surprises.

Having spent more time than usual on my hair and makeup this morning in hopes of running into Marshall, I was thoroughly aggravated when I caught sight of myself in the lobby mirror, mascara running down my cheeks, red hair clinging to my neck and shoulders. After dropping off my purse in the office, I hurry to the online reservation page to find a vacant room so I can freshen up and dry my hair.

The closest vacant room is one of the deluxe suites. I grab my metallic pearl-colored room card with the bold blue and yellow lighthouse logo that allows me access to all of the rooms. I make a pit stop in the laundry room for a fresh towel before heading into the vacant room. The bathroom, with its tan marble tiles, six-jet shower, and neatly placed soaps and moisturizers, is ready for the next guests. Moistening the towel on one corner, I dab at my makeup in an attempt to keep at least a little of it on. Flipping my head upside down, I make quick work with the hair dryer from under the sink. So much for the extra curls I added this morning. My natural wave will have to do.
You twit,
my subconscious barks.
The guy is most likely a married cheater, and why would he want you anyway?
I wipe down any evidence of my visit, drop off my towel, and head back to the desk, where Kiki is wrapping up a phone call.

Her chestnut hair is wrapped up in a messy bun, not down around her shoulders with heavily controlled natural curl like usual. It’s really cute, and I tell her so. Her attire is more casual today, jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, so I know she isn’t staying long. The day or two she is in each week are usually long ones. She hangs up and swings the chair around, her usual bright smile absent.

“Coffee maker in the lounge is apparently causing some trouble again.” She shakes her head. “You mind going to check it out, Liz?”

“Of course I can. And good morning to you too,” I say dryly.

My response gets her attention, and she springs up off her seat, laughing.

“Sorry, Liz. Kevin and I are heading to his parents’ place in Ely for the weekend, and it always seems to get me worked up. I can’t do anything right in the eyes of that uptight mother-in-law of mine.”

“You? The perfect wife, mother, and boss? Is this woman delusional?” I say, laughing at the irony of anyone thinking otherwise. The woman is genuine, hardworking, and caring. What more could a person want?

Kiki tucks in her chin and mumbles, “Brown-noser.”

I gasp dramatically and hold my heart.

We both enjoy a hardy laugh. Although Kiki is my boss and our age difference is substantial, Kiki and I have always gotten along like old friends.

I wish her good luck and head to the lounge to inspect the broken coffee maker, which, turns out, was moved, pushing the cord over onto the hotplate and causing it to melt and short. Not sure how the late night crew hadn’t noticed the awful smell of burnt plastic that must have come with it. I call our local coffee distributor, and they assure me they will have a replacement cord for us tomorrow on our scheduled delivery day.

***

I am nearly finished checking in a young couple and their two rambunctious little boys when I spot Marshall heading into the lobby. I hadn’t seen him leave this morning since I’d been so busy. After ordering the replacement cord for the coffee maker, I had spent much of my morning working on next month’s schedule and placing an order for hotel linens.

“Here are your keys. Enjoy your stay, and please let us know if you need anything at all.” I watch the two little towheaded boys drag their rolling Spiderman luggage bags before glancing again at Marshall, who is heading toward me, looking delicious in a salmon-colored fitted dress shirt that hugs his muscular build like everything else I’ve seen him wear, a matching plaid tie, and dark blue jeans that sit perfectly along the sinfully magnificent V line I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of yesterday by the lake. That line marks the trail to what I can only imagine is a glorious love muscle. My gaze travels down to a spectacular pair of black square-toed dress shoes. Oh, how I love the way he dresses. I could design a room around his masculine flawlessness alone, a room I would never desire to leave. Nervously, I fumble with a stack of invoices that need to be filed.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” Marshall says as he reaches the desk. His shirt is wet with rain, but every strand of dark hair on his head is in perfect, messy yet sexy, Ian Somerhalder form.

“Good afternoon, Marshall.” My voice is shaky. “Mr. Roderick,” I correct myself, not sure if using his first name at work is appropriate.

He raises his brow. “I bandaged your hand. I think that puts us on a first-name basis. Speaking of which, how’s the knee?”

I look down toward the knee I had momentarily forgotten even hurt. “A little bruised, but I’m all right.”

“I hope it won’t keep you from your running.” His beautiful blue eyes study me.

“No. This torrential downpour will, though.” I smile shyly.

“I’m thinking of heading to Blackwater tonight. You care to join me?”

So much for small talk.
Is he asking me out to be nice, or is this a date?
As he tilts his head to the side to find my eyes, I am made aware that I am staring at his hand, looking for reassurance he isn’t wearing a ring and that no trace of a tan line exists.

“I would be happy to pick you up,” he continues.

An immediate rush of heat sears my face, anxiety overtakes my breath, and again I’m left without words. He seems to be enjoying the sudden shift in my demeanor, because the cute mischievous grin he is sporting turns into a little chuckle.

“Unless, of course, you have another date tonight,” he says playfully, willing me to say something.

Another date? So this is a date?
My heart thumps wildly while my hands begin to sweat. I imagine what it would be like to kiss those perfect lips, touch that gorgeous face, and feel his hard body pressed against mine.
God help me.

I try to swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat. “I—I would love to go to Blackwater with you tonight.”

“Great. Eight o’clock okay?” He pulls a pen from the decorative black ceramic pot on the corner of the desk, then reaches down for a stack of sticky notes sitting next to my arm.

“Write down your address so I can pull you up on my navigation.” His well-manicured hand slides me the paper and pen.
Is there anything about this man that isn’t perfect?

“Sure. Eight is fine. I’ll meet you in front of my place.” My eyes dart down at the paper as I make an effort to use my best handwriting. I have always been told I have nice handwriting, although I doubt Marshall Roderick will be impressed with my penmanship.

“I look forward to tonight, Elizabeth.” He removes the paper from my fingers.

Hearing my name roll off his tongue—now that’s something I could never tire of.

I manage a smile and a wave as he walks away, but no words. My brain is already focused on smelling his freshly showered neck, tasting its hot flesh, burying my face into it. I close my eyes briefly, taking a mental photograph of this moment.

***

My shift at Beacon Pointe wraps up around two o’clock. The day leaves me utterly exhausted, but I somehow manage a workout, a nap, and a warm bath. For the second time today, I’m in front of my mirror, curling my hair. The rain has finally subsided. I’m delighted that I needn’t put any energy into worrying about my hair on my first date with Marshall Roderick. If, in fact, that’s what this is. My stomach is already in knots. How will I manage to get some food in me before I go? A decent meal is crucial so I don’t get drunk off of one cocktail. My tolerance for alcohol has always been on the high side, but I don’t care to be that girl—you know, the one who won’t eat all day before a date in hopes of dropping some weight by dinner, but she only does more harm than good by screwing with her blood sugar, the girl who seems to get drunk just by being near a cocktail.

After several minutes spent staring blankly at my closet, I decide upon a teal long-sleeved, scoop-neck shirt that exposes my shoulders, my favorite skinny jeans with lightly jeweled pockets, and a pair of mid-calf gray high-heeled boots I have been dying to wear. To round it all out, I select a three-tiered necklace with a long black teardrop that flirts with my neckline and matching teardrop earrings. After a spritz of perfume, I’m all ready to go.

I choke down a turkey-avocado wrap I whipped up, then brush my teeth twice just to ensure freshness. With time to spare, I grab my tablet, take a seat on the couch, and start going through my e-mails. I delete the many messages about our ten-year class reunion, which isn’t for another year and I’m pretty sure I won’t attend—unless Rose drags me there kicking and screaming.

An HGTV e-mail catches my eye, and I click on the link:

Hey, HGTV fans! Are you a novice designer or a weekend design warrior? Well, if you are and you’re proud of a room you have decorated, send us your pictures; they could be worth a cool $10,000, and a segment on your design will be featured on our new show
Dream It, Design It
premiering this November. All images must be submitted by August 1 to be accepted. Only high-res images, please.

I forward it to Rose with a note:

Damn. I wish I was
ready for this!

At ten to eight, a shiny, sexy silver and chrome Ford pickup stops in front of my townhouse. I power off my tablet and grab my purse. I pace my living room floor with giddy anticipation but stop dead in my tracks as I examine Marshall Roderick taking a long, easy step down from his truck. He’s wearing the same yummy jeans and shoes he had on earlier, but instead of salmon pink, he has changed into a black polo shirt with a gray collar and rolled-up cuff sleeves. The shirt hugs his pecks and biceps in such a way that it makes my tongue hard and my throat dry.

As he’s making his way up the walkway, I grab my purse off the antique half-moon side table in the foyer, one of my favorite pieces in my home. It was in my grandparents’ farmhouse when they lived here in Minnesota. My grandmother always kept greeting cards and letters that she found to be special inside the table’s single drawer. She called it her “loads of love drawer.” She would hide her homemade caramels in there when we visited so Grandpa wouldn’t find and eat them all; we would have to sneak them when he wasn’t looking. My grandma would read love-drawer poems and letters to us anytime we asked, which was pretty much every time we visited. There was great joy in her voice when she read to us, and it was very comforting. Rose and I were very close to our grandparents growing up. They moved to California about five years ago when Grandma’s arthritis got so bad that they could no long handle the harsh Minnesota winters. I talk to them on the phone occasionally, but it isn’t the same. I need to go for a visit. They aren’t getting any younger.

Before Marshall gets a chance to knock, I exit my house and turn to lock the door with an unsteady hand. I’m not ready to have him see inside. The place where I live feels too intimate for him to see, like he is exploring a part of me, even if this is only about sex, another notch on his bedpost. And maybe Marshall isn’t the settle-down-and-get-married type. I’m in it for one great fling before I start looking for Mr. Right. Turning on my heel to face him, my heart jumps. I’m only a few feet away from a smooth-shaven, strong face that greets me warmly.

“Hi,” I say quietly as I nearly stumble right into him.

“Elizabeth, you look remarkable.”

Holy shit. Did he just say I look remarkable?
The only remarkable thing on this porch is Marshall Roderick.

His eyes travel down the length of me. “And you’re much taller than I remember,” he says with a grin. The smell of sandalwood and hint of leather captures my nose, making my knees wobble. He offers up his arm like a gentleman. “Shall we?” His voice, as always, is upbeat, and his smile is infectious.

I clasp his arm as we make our way to the truck. Unable to help myself, I place my other hand on his rock-solid bicep to feel its heat beneath my fingertips.

All too soon, his hand reaches for the cool chrome truck door handle, while his other hand lightly touches the small of my back. Electricity courses through me, causing my fingertips to tingle. I take the high step up into the cab, glad I hadn’t chosen a skirt.
Or am I? A sneak peek never hurt anyone.
Not that I wear many skirts; I’m more of a jeans girl. My mother always wanted Rose and me in matching dresses as children, as do most parents of twin girls, I suppose. Rose and I had grown to hate dresses and hated matching even more. We began refusing to wear them and even went as far as making a picket sign. I guess once Mom gave in to our dress retaliation—we were in the fifth grade—I never thought of wearing skirts or dresses. It didn’t help either that my parents decided to be cute with our names. I’m Elizabeth Rose and she is Rose Elizabeth. Cute to them, but never to us.