Mr. Romantic: A Mister Standalone (The Mister Series Book 2) (5 page)

The map pulls up a small town in the Southern California desert. San Diego is two hours away and Palm Springs is an hour and a half. The closest attraction, if you can call the weird Salton Sea an attraction, has been abandoned and is now mostly used to film post-apocalyptic indie films and sad documentaries of ecological disasters.

Luckily, Hundred Palms Resort is on the western side of the town of Borrego Springs, and it’s not likely that anyone heading out here would venture so far as to see the disaster a little farther east in the desert.

What the hell was Nolan Delaney thinking?

I do a little more research on Borrego and after about an hour decide it draws a lot of people who come to see the desert bloom in the early spring each year. I’m not one for cactus flowers, but I can see that it can be pretty at times.

August isn’t one of them, unfortunately. I can’t imagine how he’s going to attract visitors out here.

I guess that’s why he’s looking for a manager with marketing experience, Ivy.

For whatever reason, he wants this place to succeed and the three interviewees have been brought in to make sure that happens.

I don’t care for Claudette Delaney. She’s got the makings of a spectacular bitch. And it’s quite possible that Nolan Delaney is everything the reporters said he was back when he was accused of raping that girl in college. But everything has value and the job of a good marketer is to find that value and exploit it.

Challenge accepted, Mr. Delaney.

I didn’t come all the way across the country to be thrown out like trash, and even though he’s expecting me to fail tonight, I’m not going to let some over-privileged family make me look like a fool.

I think I’ll keep my virginity for someone special and go for the job.

Chapter Five - Nolan

Even though I spend the rest of the miserably hot day locked in my air-conditioned office, the desert is making me crazy.

Crazy
. That’s what my father called me when I said Borrego Springs.
You’ll attract hipsters with tents. Eco-freaks or throwback drug addicts who want to hunt down their own wild peyote. We already have Palm Springs, and even that is too much action for the wasteland out there
.

But I don’t think the desert is a wasteland. I kind of love it out here. I can deal with the heat of the day when I know the cool nights are coming. But July and August are the worst. And every time the temperature climbs up to a hundred and ten these days, I forget all about how nice it is in the winter. All I can see are people huddled in their air-conditioned rooms, counting the minutes until check-out.

Was I wrong to take on this risk?

I’ve had many moments of doubts. In fact, without Claudette, I’d have never gone through with the project. She’s the only one in my family who understands. The only one willing to put in time and effort to help me make this happen.

Why can’t you build resorts where people like to go, like everyone else
?

Because building resorts is fucking expensive. I have plenty of money, but most of it is tied up in the San Diego clubs. And that is my future, like it or not. Even if Hundred Palms does get off the ground, the clubs will be paying for it until it can turn a profit.

And knowing what I do about resorts, that might take a while.

The golf course is going to cost a fortune to maintain. The water to keep the greens healthy is a whole other political matter. I had to invest millions in alternative energy to even get the initial permits to build.

Why are you such a disappointment, Nolan
?

I grab my phone and press West’s home contact again. It rings through to voicemail, so I just hang up. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. We have this little thing going between the Misters. Like we used to do back in school. Fucking with each other for old time
’
s sake.

Now that Mr. Perfect has settled down, Corporate’s been hounding me to do the same. All of us, actually. And so he concocted this little plan to set up Oliver—Mr. Match—with a girl who frequents the online dating site he runs with his sister. That’s how Oliver made his money since college. Online dating.

“Don’t you think it’s strange that Oliver has no girlfriend when he runs an online dating site?” West asked when I saw him last. “It’s the wrong kind of business for him.”

But it’s no worse than feeding people drinks in a club, I guess. I say let Oliver take over the virtual world if he wants. Who are we to say it’s not the right path for him?

But West didn’t agree. He says it’s time to grow up and make a difference. Like Perfect. But there’s a reason everyone called Mac Mr. Perfect. He is, after all, pretty fucking perfect.

Maybe Oliver and I aren’t interested in making the world a better place? And who the fuck knows what Mr. Mysterious is up to? Perfect’s engagement party a few months ago was the first time I saw him in ages. He lives in LA. Knows lots of important people. I’ve heard people whispering his name at the clubs. And even though I was pretty sure at the time it was only because of who he was in the past, I think it
’
s more about what he
’
s doing now.

There are no five-star hotels in Borrego. There are two four-stars that do a passable job and an RV park masquerading as a hotel that doesn’t even count.

It’s a good plan, Nolan
.

That’s not my father’s voice in my head. It’s mine. My father hasn’t said a nice thing about me since my mother walked out on him and took me with her back when I was twelve. She didn’t take Claudette, just me.

And even though Claudette should hold a grudge about that, she didn’t. Doesn’t. She’s far too much like my father to foster feelings of abandonment.

Still, I need ideas. Fresh ideas. Ideas that no one’s thought about. Ideas that will build interest in this resort besides what it has to offer in amenities. There are a million spectacular hotel pools. There are many professional golf courses. Why should people come
here
?

That’s what I need from the two men I have working on the marketing campaign. They are the best in the business right now. And both of them have excellent jobs. They don’t need
this
job. They are here, on my dime, using their own vacation days in order to interview. They are taking a risk on me and that is the only good thing I have going right now.

At least two people, outside of Claudette, believe in me.

Well, Corporate believes. But he believes in everyone. His job is to see the potential in people and match them up with employers looking for what they do best.

Which brings me to Ivy Rockwell. I scan my desk until I see the folder, then open it up and take out her r
é
sum
é
.

She looks good on paper, but what the hell, West? Twenty-two years old? I get that she’s smart. But twenty-two? There’s not enough real-world experience there to offset her
youngness,
no matter what kind of go-getter she’s proven herself to be in school.

I can’t send her home tonight. I have to at least give the impression she has a chance or she might pull the woman card on me. Call me sexist. Imply that she didn’t get the job based on her sex.

The fact is, she’s too pretty. Claudette would never give the thumbs-up to hire a woman as beautiful as Ivy Rockwell, so tonight I’ll give her an assignment and have her present it tomorrow morning. She’ll be on the jet back to Rhode Island before noon and then I can get the guys started on the next project. I only have a few days to come to a decision that might make or break my success here at the resort, so I can’t waste time on placating Ivy Rockwell.

I really should consider hiring both these guys I have here interviewing. They are talented.

But it
’
s a big risk to tie up that kind of potential.

I grab a few things and stuff them in my briefcase, then head over to the cabana I’m staying in. I need a dip in the pool. I need the sun to burn this negativity off me. I need to relax.

I pass the few guests who were personally invited as I make my way through the main lobby. They are huddled in the bar, mostly, where the AC is kicking out full force. I smile, and wave, and say pleasant things as I continue walking, then drop the smile when I walk through the back doors to the main pool.

The heat is suffocating and there’s no one at all lounging under the umbrellas. The misters, which go off in strategic locations every thirty seconds to keep sunbathers cool, are a waste of water.

Don’t think about it
,
Nolan. You have six couples here, that’s all. If the place was full there’d be plenty of action at the pool.

But I don’t believe it. I just don’t believe it.

I go through the gate that separates the residence section from the hotel and I’m already taking my suit coat off before I even get inside. I throw it over the couch, the briefcase follows, and I go to work on my dress shirt.

Two minutes later I’m wearing swimming trunks and diving into the private pool in front of the cabanas.

When I come up for air I look straight at Ivy Rockwell in a bright yellow bikini.

I flash her a Romantic grin out of habit, then catch myself and let it fall into a frown. “I’m glad you’re having a nice afternoon at the resort, Miss Rockwell.”

She lowers her white sunglasses and peers down her nose at me. “I’m testing out the facilities, Mr. Delaney. The misters are off-target and the pool water is too hot.”

“Is that so?” I ask, swimming over towards her lounge chair. “Feels good to me.”

“That’s because you just got out of that stifling suit. But if you were me, sitting in this chair, aching for a refreshing dunk to cool down, you’d know better. Because I was thoroughly disappointed when I dove in ten minutes ago.”

I stand up in the pool—the depth is only three feet. And as the water rushes down my chest, I don’t miss the fact that her eyes follow those little droplets all the way down to my dick. She recovers quickly, and her eyes find mine again.

“Furthermore—”

“Are you trying to impress me with your analysis, Miss Rockwell?”

“Furthermore,” she repeats, “the AC in my cabana”—she nods her head behind her
—
“isn’t up to par with what one might expect when it’s a hundred and thirteen degrees outside. It only goes down to sixty-seven.”

“Sixty-seven isn’t cool enough for you, Miss Rockwell?”

“Hardly, Mr. Delaney. I’d like it to be sixty-six. But I can’t adjust it. Well, I can. But it doesn’t get any cooler because you have some sort of temperature threshold built in to prevent the AC from making it any cooler.”

“Did you know that they charge you to use the AC in Paris hotels, Miss Rockwell?”

“I did, actually. I’ve experienced it first-hand. But we’re not in France, Mr. Delaney. We’re in the United States. And people expect the freedom to choose their own temperature in a five-star hotel room.
Especially
,
” she continues, “when it’s a hundred and thirteen degrees outside.”

I walk over to the edge of the pool and lean down, resting my chin on my hands. Her feet are right in front of me. Her little toenails are painted yellow, like she was trying to match her suit.

My gaze travels up her body, lingering on her legs for a moment, before continuing to her breasts, which are spilling out of her top. She shifts her legs, bending one knee into a sexy scissor arrangement, and stares me down.

“Energy is expensive, Miss Rockwell.”

“I realize that, Mr. Delaney. But people expect to be comfortable, whatever that word means to them, when they pay top dollar for a room. So my first suggestions would be to retarget the misters, nix the heaters on the pool at night—it’s simply not necessary since the water can’t possibly cool off enough to matter—and lower the threshold on your AC to sixty-two.”

“Is that your professional opinion?” I ask.

“It is.”

I place my hands flat on the concrete and pull myself up and out of the pool, bringing a rush of water with me that splashes onto her perfectly tanned legs. She has to tilt her head up to me now, and I like the way that makes me feel.