The glass double door to the balcony opened, and Cresson came back, an unhappy expression on his face. That was never a good sign.
“What is it?” Rob asked.
“Mr. Hawkings left a message for you down at the desk,” Cresson said, holding out a tri-folded piece of paper.
Rob took it from him, flipped it open, and read.
Mr. Cannon,
I regret that I am too busy to entertain business consultations with you. Please be aware that I’ve taken the liberty of letting the front desk know that you will be leaving today and your suite will be paid in full as a thank-you for the thoughtful gift.
Sincerely,
Logan Hawkings
“Fuck!” Rob wadded up the piece of paper and threw it over the balcony. “That fucking cocksucking stuck-up asshole!”
“What is it?” Cresson asked, taking a step backward.
“We’ve been fucking tossed out of the hotel,” Rob sneered. “He’s booting us and disguising it as a favor to me.”
“So we’re leaving today?”
Rob drummed his fingers on his mouth furiously. There was no way he was leaving today. Not with his date scheduled for later tonight with Marjorie. Not when he hadn’t got what he came for. Clearly Logan wasn’t receptive to pleasant overtures. He’d just have to get vicious. “We’re not leaving,” he said after a long moment. “Go downstairs and check us out of this room. Then tell Gortham that when he gets back, I want him to get me another suite under a different name. I don’t care what name, just as long as Hawkings doesn’t realize I’m still here. And then get my other assistant.” He snapped his fingers, trying to think. “What’s her name—”
“Smith,” Cresson supplied helpfully.
He pointed at Cresson in thanks. “Smith. Yes. Get Smith to call the Tits or GTFO people and get them on the first flight out here.” His smile was cruel. “If Logan thinks my being here is fucking up his wedding, he hasn’t seen a thing yet.”
It was officially time to misbehave.
Chapter Thirteen
Still in a hazy, dreamlike state of contentment, Marjorie floated from breakfast the next morning to shuffleboard, to a late lunch scheduled with Brontë, the bride to be. Her body was present, but her mind was still on that moonlit beach last night, when Rob pressed his mouth to hers and told her that he desired her. Actually, he’d said it with a lot more f-bombs, but she didn’t care. He could use all the cuss-words he wanted, as long as he kissed her like that and made her feel so incredibly beautiful.
She’d never had a moment like that, ever.
And Rob still liked her, even after she’d thrown up on him, made a spectacle of herself on their first date, and acted strangely on the second date. He still wanted to see more of her. She’d done everything possible to mess the dates up and he’d still come after her.
Marjorie’s heart felt full to bursting at the thought. Rob said he wasn’t capable of love? That was too bad, because she was half in love with him already. He might not think of himself as a kind man, but his actions toward her had spoken differently. He might have a tough, cuss-laden outer shell, but there was a tender heart beating underneath.
She was still on cloud nine as she wandered in to the Green Dining Hall. Brontë had asked to meet there instead of the cute Seaturtle Cay cafe, and Marjorie scanned the empty room looking for her friend. Brontë was at a back table, a small figure hunched over a mountain of cream-colored envelopes.
“Bron?” Marjorie called, moving forward.
A head rose from behind the hill of envelopes. Brontë’s loose curls were pulled into a bun atop her head and dark rings smudged the skin under her eyes. She waved Marjorie over, a smile on her face. “Hey Marj! Thanks for meeting me here. I hope it’s not a problem if we have someone bring lunch to us instead of going to lunch?”
“No, that’s fine,” Marjorie said, curious as she sat across from Brontë at one of the round tables. Stack upon stack of thick parchment envelopes covered the table. At the other end, Brontë scribbled something on a card, then tucked it into an envelope and stamped it with a wax seal. “What’s all this?”
“Oh!” Brontë looked up from the envelope and tossed it into a small pile of sealed ones. She looked over the array. “That stack is for the hotel employees. Logan wants to bonus them as a thank-you for helping out with the wedding. That other stack is for guests who flew in for the wedding—thank-you cards.” She pointed at another stack. “That one is for vendors who sent wedding presents and need a thank-you card letting them know we received their gift. And that stack there is for those that will be attending and leaving a gift at the wedding even though we requested no gifts. And that stack,” she pointed at another, “is for people that were invited to the wedding but couldn’t make it and sent a gift.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m drowning in thank-yous, and I’m not even sure I’ve got everything covered.”
Marjorie pulled up a chair next to Brontë. “Need some help? I can stuff and seal after you sign.”
The bride sent her a grateful look. “That’d be wonderful. As Aristotle said, ‘A friend is a second self.’ I could dearly use another pair of hands at the moment.”
They worked quietly for a few moments, Brontë signing cards with her married name and a brief note, and Marjorie carefully tucking them into envelopes, sealing them, and placing them in the appropriate piles. They were able to speed up Brontë’s production enough that the drawn, frazzled look disappeared from her face. “So,” Brontë said, as she wrote. “Tell me about your week. Have you been having fun?”
Immediately, Marjorie’s thoughts filled with Rob. A hot flush stained her cheeks. “I’m enjoying myself. Though I have to admit it still feels decadent to have all this time off of work as a paid holiday.” Since Logan owned the sock-hop diner and Brontë had invited most of the waitresses to come be part of her weeks-long wedding plans, her filthy-rich husband had arranged for the diner to be staffed with temps who could handle things while the others were gone and sunning themselves at the resort. It seemed a ridiculous expense to Marjorie, but then again, maybe that was just something billionaires did. “This place is wonderful. You look tired, though.”
Brontë’s mouth curved in a wry smile. “I never thought having a wedding would be so much work. I’ll be glad when I can get home and just curl up on the couch with Logan.”
Marjorie had a hard time picturing the forbidding Logan Hawkings doing anything as normal as lounging on the sofa with his wife. But maybe Brontë saw a different side of him than Marjorie did. “Well, anything I can help you with, you just let me know. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me.”
“Of course you’re invited! You’re one of my closest friends.” Brontë put down the card she was holding and squeezed Marjorie’s hand. “And I’m so happy you’re here. I’m sorry if I’ve been so absent. There seems to be an endless parade of things to do before the wedding and I can’t keep up with all of them. Are you having a good time despite my neglect?”
“Oh, I don’t feel neglected at all,” Marjorie exclaimed. “I’m having a wonderful time.” That blush seemed to want to take up permanent residence on her cheeks. “I’ve been playing shuffleboard and went to bingo and have been working on my tan and just everything you can imagine.”
“Shuffleboard, huh?” Brontë giggled at that. “I’m picturing you lording it over the shuffleboard court, a bunch of gray-haired ladies shaking their fists at you.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m good at shuffleboard. Long arms.”