One Bossy Date: Chapter 6

“Reschedule my day tomorrow, Mr. Dutton. I have a meeting with Ward Brandt about a concept design for a new resort in Orlando that takes priority,” I tell my assistant, annoyed that every word seems forced.

“Right-o.” Keenan taps at his phone diligently, but I catch him sneaking looks at me over the screen. “When’s the meeting with Brandt?”

“Noon.”

“Dammit, these new hires,” Creighton, the CFO, barks to me. “She wasn’t even paying attention when she plowed into you. I should have gotten her badge number.”

He looks at me like he’s expecting a pat on the head.

“Drop it,” I snarl, remembering to soften the blow too late. “It’s not important. We have bigger concerns than a few toes getting stepped on.”

The stunned look on his face tells me I’m the asshole who should take my own advice.

I still can’t fucking believe it.

Miss Sunshine.

Here.

All rolling curves and blond seduction with the same sea-blue highlights that’s had me waking up in a cold sweat for two goddamned months.

Her face was even as crimson as the first time I scared her half to death.

What the ever living fuck?

A face-to-chest collision and not even a hello before she took off like she was afraid I’d light her ass on fire?

At least Creighton’s irritation confirms it wasn’t a hallucination.

Without it, I’d be questioning my sanity, considering I’ve been as fixated as a damn kid with a prom date since that night in Lanai.

No illusion, though.

Our gazes melted.

Her emerald eyes with mine.

Her strawberry of a mouth, pert and sweet and aching for my teeth.

I forgot how striking she truly is in the flesh. No fading memory of that weekend could ever do her justice.

She’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever kissed, and that’s the problem.

“Boss, do you know that young woman?” Keenan asks.

I whip around, ignoring his question. “Was she a new hire?”

My mind flashes back to the black-and-gold company badge hanging from her collar. Not the same badge we use for guests and freelance contractors.

I’m about to take off after her—but at the pace she’s going, she’s probably ahead of me by now. She damn near pulls that poor brunette with her right over.

Meanwhile, Creighton speeds ahead and disappears through the glass doors. I hope I didn’t bruise his ego too much.

I glance over at Keenan. “Who was that?”

But I already know she’s a vlogger named Piper Renee I can’t extract from my psyche.

“You mean the blond your eyes were superglued to?” Keenan says with a knowing smile.

I glare at him, willing the ground underneath him to open up.

He laughs. “Don’t worry! She looked surprised to see you too. Haven’t ever seen a staring contest that intense since…ever.”

In true Keenan style, he’s not taking the hint.

If he weren’t the best damn executive assistant I’ve had—the only one who’s ever kept up with a million moving pieces that change daily—he’d be long gone. And as an added bonus, he’s never hit on me because he prefers delicate and sensitive artist men who wear bright colors.

“Get me her name and division,” I say. I narrowly avoid adding ASAP.

Keenan wags his brows and leans into my ear.

“You feeling okay, bossman? Because if you’re suddenly in the market for a scandalicious office romance…”

“Don’t,” I bite off. “Don’t even joke about that shit. This organization has a sterling reputation, and Gramps will have me castrated if I don’t keep it. Capiche?”

“Capiche? You’ve gone all Tony Soprano now? This is serious.”

I snort, struggling not to crack a smile.

If I’m going to have an asshole as my right-hand man, at least he’s a witty asshole.

“Sorry. My grandma used to say that when I was in trouble, even though we’re less than one percent Italian. Look, if the blonde is who I think she is and she’s on payroll, I need to talk to her. She could help our marketing woes. If it weren’t for the meeting, I’d go looking for her myself.”

“And you don’t need me there to take notes now?” he asks.

“Dammit. I hadn’t thought about that. Find a secretary for the notes and you find Miss Clumsy for me. Pull her personnel file. I’ll decide what happens from there.”

Keenan doesn’t say anything, but from the way he stares, I can tell he’s intrigued. He snaps off a crisp salute.

I roll my eyes. “Out with it. If you’ve got any shit on your brain, let’s have it now.”

“I’m just surprised if you aren’t cruising for a hookup—something I’m sure your grouchy fun-hating self would never do. We’ve got our best people working on the big bad, vets with ten years in digital marketing. They haven’t been able to figure out what the hell is going on with reviews. So, why would some new hire?”

“She’s new, but I’ve seen her talents shine before. She could bring valuable insights you just won’t get from a desk jockey, even if they’re damn good at what they do. I’d be a fool to ignore her.”

Keenan nods slowly, still side-eyeing me. “I’m on it. Enjoy your meeting.”

We split apart as we head back inside.

My jaw feels tight enough to splinter.

A hundred justified business reasons for finding Miss Renee still can’t hide the awful truth.

I’m aching to taste her again.

That abstract, phantom lust I’ve carried around for months just turned into a bleeding sore.

What the fuck happens if I know she’s in reach?

If I know she’s in this very building, and infinitely more forbidden than she ever was on a starry Hawaiian night?

The meeting is pointless mind dribble.

It’s an hour and a half of listening to a contractor moaning apologies because he can’t meet the deadlines he agreed to and all the reasons why the consequences shouldn’t be contractually enforced.

Missing deadlines wastes my time.

So do meetings that drag on with a litany of excuses.

I glance at the middle-aged man across from me, Price my Legal head, and sigh. “You don’t want to activate the penalty program, but I do. The contract was breached—”

He goes pale and starts to say something.

I hold my hand up.

“Look, I’m not concerned about the breach right now, but I need delivery in full next week. The Austin property has a tight construction schedule if we want to go live during the seasonal upswing next year.”

Price starts in, “Mr. Winthrope, before rushing to litigation, in my opinion it might be wise to extend a certain grace period—”

I look at the secretary before he finishes.

“Record a one-week courtesy waiver in the meeting notes. One week, and not a day more. I’ll retain my right to arbitration if work isn’t started seven days from now. As soon as we’re finished, please send Mr. Price a copy of the minutes. CC myself and Keenan Dutton.” I stand and look back at my petrified Legal man. “You’ll have to get over it and hope our partners pick up the pace. I don’t have time to waste on bullshit.”

I leave the room and head for my office. You’d be surprised how draining it gets ruling this place with an iron fist.

Keenan walks in through my still-open door holding a manila folder before I even make it to my chair.

“What now?” I ask.

“Miss Piper Renee’s file, as requested. And it is Miss Renee, in case you wondered.” He winks at me.

My look lances through him as I snatch it out of his hand.

Why does fate have to be so goddamned annoying when it smacks you in the face?

Things happen for a reason. I’ve always believed that.

That’s why I’m not taking my unexpected slice of sunshine for granted. She’s here to help with my PR problem.

“Let me have it,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair.

“She’s a new hire in marketing. About twenty-four years old. She comes with an exceptional candidate recommendation from an internal source with three years in the department. Her resume lists a few years of content marketing experience, a bachelor’s in media relations, and…a massive love of dogs and birds.”

I choke back a laugh.

I’ll never understand the birds, but dogs? We might have one thing in common.

“Marketing, huh?” I say absently, reaching into my desk for the same battered tennis ball that always keeps my hands busy when I’m thinking.

I start throwing my ball, wondering if I can get away with moving her without another direct encounter.

The ball strays off course on my next throw.

Keenan ducks before it sails over his head. It bangs the wall behind him and comes bouncing back to me.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

Usually, I like it when things are easy, but if steering her where I need her just requires a word from a supervisor versus a meeting with the CEO, we might get through this without a scandal.

“What’s her role?” I ask.

“Entry-level copywriter.”

Dammit, there might be a good reason for that meeting after all.

Copy grunts don’t handle high-level marketing decisions, and no one will understand a snap promotion without high-level approval.

I don’t need her in copywriting, stringing together words when I’ve seen what she can do on video.

“Let her know I need to see her first thing tomorrow morning.”

Strictly business, I remind myself, hiding a smirk.

I just need help with the review crisis. Wanting her in my office has nothing to do with the way her body molded to mine or the way she tasted on Lanai.

“Will do. Should I come too?” Keenan lifts his brows and gives me his usual incredulous look.

“I think Miss Renee will find my presence demanding enough without adding smart-ass comments,” I say.

“Suit yourself, boss.” Keenan leaves with a chuckle and I turn back to the screen on my desk.

I’m barely logged in when I get a Zoom notification with ROSS WINTHROPE next to it.

Shit.

Why did he have to retire without really retiring so soon? I don’t have anything nearly as under control as Gramps did in his day, and I think he knows it.

My finger stabs a key and Grandpa’s face flashes across my screen. His bright-red tinted shades hang low on his nose like a bad John Lennon impression, and his familiar mane of silver hair has gotten longer and shaggier than ever.

“Congratulations on a few more grey hairs,” I say.

He rolls his eyes. “What can I say, my boy? I thought after you were grown you’d quit making me so distinguished, but we’re still waiting.”

A joke that’s too close to the truth.

Besides the review debacle and marketing snafus, I’ve done nothing but worry my half-retired billionaire grandfather.

“How’s London today?”

“It’s London. Foggy and cool, but there’s a beef bourguignon with my name on it for dinner, so I have no complaints staying busy. I’ve taken up more painting classes—I have to do something with all this free time on my hands.” He gives me a rare smile. “Care to see my latest piece? Your grandmother says I should auction it off for charity, but I say we hang it in the great room after I have it properly framed.”

I hold my breath while he reaches over and grabs a black canvas covered in blue splotches.

Don’t ask what any of the misshapen blueberries are supposed to be.

I don’t think it’s all the same hue because some of the lines are darker.

“Well?” He waits.

“It’s…interesting, Gramps.” I twist in my seat, reaching deep for something to say. “Very colorful. Wish I’d paid attention in art history so I could tell you more.”

Then again, if I had, my head might be exploding at this abstract abomination he’s brought to life.

Gramps taught me to always be honest at all costs. Meanwhile, Grandma says it’s best not to speak if you can’t be complimentary.

I’m not sure he’d be flattered if I point out how his painting looks like Picasso took acid in a jungle. And it doesn’t matter.

He spent over fifty years turning Winthrope into a world-class luxury brand.

If bad abstract art is what he wants to spend his golden years on, so be it.

“You’ll be happy to know the Orlando and Austin resorts are both progressing,” I say, changing the subject.

“Ah, yes. I sincerely hope the early reviews in Austin turn out better than the Hawaiian gems you spearheaded. Such a shame. I thought with that locally sourced peaberry coffee from Mr. Lancaster, they’d be singing your praises from Lisbon to Beijing.”

“They adore the coffee,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth. “It’s the one thing nobody whines about.”

Yes, I think miserably.

“Great resorts aren’t made by its beverages,” he says matter-of-factly, his eyes swelling with sympathy. “However, you’ll find your footing, son. I was older than you when they began singing Winthrope New York’s praises, you know.”

Tick-fucking-tok, he means.

He was one, maybe two years older.

He trusted me with his company, and so far, I’m an underwhelming successor at best.

He’s right about one thing, though.

I’ll come back from it.

I have to.

I’m not letting my grandparents down and settling for mediocrity. I just need more time to set everything right.

If only Gramps wasn’t still reading over our quarterly updates and briefings. I keep hoping he’ll be too busy to notice the damn PR problem that started in Maui and Lanai and keeps spreading like a blight.

Worst of all, I’m not even close to figuring out who might be fucking me over with this exaggerated horseshit.

The silent majority who stay at Winthrope properties never leave reviews.

Sometimes if you offer them freebies, maybe.

But your average luxury client isn’t easily wowed by small extras. Real reviews come when people have a noteworthy experience and walk away either glowing or pissed off.

I still have a hard time believing our resorts are making people that irate.

“Is that my Brock?” Grandma calls from off-screen. “Oh, let me say hello!”

“Did you hear that?” Gramps asks.

Grandma smooshes into the frame with him a second later, pleasant as ever with her plump face and regal smile. “How are you doing, my little bear?”

“I’m fine, Grandma.”

“Are you eating enough?”

I can’t help laughing. In her mind, I think I’m forever frozen at ten years old.

“Yes.”

“Make sure you don’t overwork yourself. Go to bed by a decent hour.” She wags a finger. “There’s more to life than managing a hotel empire, dear. Take it from this guy.”

She elbows Gramps playfully and he gives her a dirty look back.

I sigh.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“It’s easy for you to talk. You guys not only built the brand, but took it to the stars. I’m fighting the whole world just to keep it airborne.”

“Not the whole world,” Gramps corrects. “Just a few jealous competitors and review sites.”

“Sure, that’s all—” I cut off mid-sentence. Speaking of keeping things from crashing down… “I’m afraid I forgot something. Can I call you back?”

Gramp’s face hardens. “You’re not behind on work, are you?”

“Worse. I forgot a favor for a friend.”

He nods. “We’ll let you get to it then.”

“I love you, sweetheart!” Grandma says.

“Take care of yourself, Brock,” Gramps says.

“Love you both.” I end the call and yank my drawer open, searching for the recommendation letter that’s handwritten on company letterhead.

I remove it from the unsealed envelope and scan it once, then a second time.

Then I pick up another handful of written, revised, and sealed letters from my desk that Keenan brought in last week and add this one to the top of the stack.

Fyodor, my driver and personal assistant, can handle the rest. I grab my phone.

“I need you to take care of something for me. Can you come to my office?”

“On my way.”

I quickly respond to a couple of emails before there’s a tap at my door five minutes later.

“Come,” I call.

He walks in, adorned in a brilliant gold-and-white designer shirt crisscrossing his chest. Fyo might be a snazzier dresser than Gramps and Keenan combined, and I cringe to think he might spend more of his salary on designer brands than I do, even if I pay him well.

He’s in his late forties and looks like a retired rock star.

“What do you need, Mr. Winthrope?” he asks with a hint of his faded Russian accent.

I wave the letter in the air. “I need you to make sure these get hand-delivered to the deans of the schools Vanessa specified. Have it set up so they can’t ignore them. You still have the list?”

“Absolutely. Anything else?”

“No.”

He grabs it without another word and exits my office. I wish all my people were this efficient and immune to pulling my tail.

My phone buzzes with a text from Keenan, though, telling me I might as well wish for a review fairy to come down and shower me with happy write-ups.

Keenan: So, more bad news. Try not to kill me. You know the travel blogger you wanted to check out the Chicago property—the BIG one with Amex travel? He just turned us down.

Fuck.

Did he say why? I send back.

Keenan: Too many complaints. The stench won’t wash off, boss. This guy had multiple offers for the same weekend you proposed and felt like other places were safer bets. He told me he won’t go places he hates if he wants to keep his sanity.

Brownie points for giving us the finger nicely? he adds.

I glare at the screen.

How can he hate Winthrope? He’s never done a single write-up, I send.

Keenan: Yes. I checked the records. He’s never stayed with us before.

Dammit straight to hell.

Stench is right.

My worst fears are coming true.

This growing shitpile of rotten reviews is souring people’s opinions before they even stay with us. They don’t want to take the gamble.

The fact that he turned down a premier property in Chicago—the last big project Gramps personally oversaw with a Brandt architectural design—guts me.

Tell him he’s welcome anytime if he changes his mind. We’ll cover everything, airfare included.

Hell, I’ll fly in and be his personal tour guide if I have to, even if it’ll be a lot less fun than stooping that low with Miss Renee.

I have to turn this ship around before it goes tits up.

Keenan: I’ll let you know what he says.

Sighing, I slam my phone down on my desk and start Googling Winthrope Resorts with a sneer that hurts my face.

Of course, the first thing that pops up aren’t those dick-teasing videos Piper posted of her stay in Lanai.

That would be bad for me in ways that have nothing to do with horrid publicity.

It’s the usual dumpster fire of bad reviews all over Google and top travel sites.

There’s no escaping the carnage.

I don’t make it ten minutes before my blood is boiling.

Snarling, I pick up the phone and punch my marketing director’s contact.

“This is Robert.”

“Rob, I want your team churning out fresh content on the Chicago resort. All your best copywriters.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “All of them?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why?” His voice shrinks.

“We’re not taking this goddamned smear campaign lying down,” I snarl. “No one will ever market Winthrope resorts better than we do.”

“Oh, right. And you said Chicago? There’s an issue there now?” I think I can hear him wincing. “Sorry, sir. I don’t know how it keeps happening.”

“Not your responsibility. The latest one-star tirade is new, and I want it gone before it goes viral.”

“We’re on it, sir. I’ll let you know how much content we’re able to drop before I leave for the day,” he tells me.

“I appreciate it.” I cut the call.

I need to figure out what the hell is going on so I can be proactive.

Anything beats waiting around for some lunatic to lob another drive-by one-star bomb and only reacting after the fact.

I shove my chair out, stand, and walk to my sideboard.

I don’t drink at work often, but today I need something stiffer than caffeine and stress.

I also wonder if I’m overthinking this latest PR kick to the balls.

Is it really shitty review number one hundred getting under my skin or her?

Miss Renee’s presence in this building haunts me like a bloodhound that knows there’s a juicy steak on the other side of its door.

I don’t have time for office affairs.

I don’t do drama.

I have no appetite to get mixed up with some striking blond bombshell who’s already seen me naked.

How much can a man lie to himself? I wonder bitterly.

Fuck this.

The one day we spent together had me working like a dog to undo my mistakes. I was never meant to taste her, to have her little whimper branded into my grey matter.

I look down and swear again.

Apparently, the brutal hard-on I’m sporting doesn’t care for my excuses.

“Focus, you sex-starved baboon,” I mutter to myself, fishing out a bottle and a couple glasses.

I wonder if Gramps ever needed liquid courage when he was my age.

Doubtful. The man was already married and had my father, so he wasn’t lacking in the sex department.

I pour myself two fingers of brandy and hope the fire exploding in my belly helps thaw my blue balls.

Guess what?

It doesn’t.

All it does is remind me of the drinks I shared with Miss Sunshine in a sunny Hawaiian office. Plus, a hundred other damnable things that shouldn’t have ever happened there.

The ATV ride after lunch.

She wrapped herself around me like a scared kitten, clinging too close with soft curves and a sweet scent rolling off her I’ll never forget.

Goddamn.

I could have driven us into the nearest brush, thrown her down, and taken her right there.

I could have sucked those little red lips she gnaws so thoughtfully raw.

I could have pushed inside her and banished her respectable stubbornness thrust by thrust.

And the long walk back to the resort through the rock garden, where she fluttered from stone to stone.

I was already so hard I could barely breathe by the time she tumbled into my arms.

It took every ounce of my willpower to break that kiss, to refrain from so many catastrophic decisions I wanted to make with her.

How do I ever see her again without remembering how she moaned?

Fuck, it was like she’d never been kissed before.

But that’s insane, of course she has.

There’s no earthly way a woman that beautiful made it to her twenties without a mile of men lined up, preening all over her.

My fingers tighten around the glass.

I already hate these imaginary hookups.

That’s where my mind is—stuck on jealousy for a woman I can never claim unless I want to blow my own career to kingdom come.

If only the chemistry on that breezy night wasn’t so real.

Still, her talent is real too. That’s more important than indulging these lizard brain desires.

She knows her shit, especially travel marketing from a fresh perspective the average marketing new hire will never comprehend.

She can help put out this fire, no question.

So why the hell did she run away?

An unpleasant thought gnaws at the back of my mind.

Maybe she’s had time to think about what happened in Lanai.

Maybe the lovely videos she posted and the glowing review of the resort there was just that.

A review of the facility and its amenities.

Not that stolen kiss with yours truly.

Maybe the chemistry is all in my head and she regrets everything.

She damn sure wasn’t eager to talk, but she definitely recognized me.

Shit.

Does she resent me for seizing her lips? For walking away and doing the annoying smart thing instead of hauling her up to my room?

We have to clear the air.

I need her talent more than I need any hard feelings about what happened on that trip, and I have to make it clear workplace boundaries will be respected this time.

I finish my drink and angrily pour another, sloshing strong brandy over my hands.

My phone buzzes on my desk. I swallow the second glass down and look at the screen.

Keenan again. Mr. Big turned you down again. He said he was just trying to be polite about the scheduling conflict. He didn’t expect you to come back with another offer. But you seem like a nice guy and he wishes you all the luck.

I rip the phone up and start mashing at the screen.

give Brock: What the actual fuck? I can’t away time at my luxury resort with transportation covered now?

Keenan: Better we don’t waste comps on folks who won’t appreciate them, IMO.

Fuck. This is bad.

I thought we still had time before top critics start shunning us like a haunted mansion.

Can you find someone else like him? Anyone from the other travel mags? I finger-punch Send.

Keenan: Working on it. I just wanted you to know where we’re at.

Brock: I know. Up shit creek with no paddle.

Keenan: Can’t disagree. Sorry.

Damn. I was hoping he would.

I’ve got marketing churning to bury the latest garbage from Chicago, I send.

Keenan: We might need a better strategy. No offense.

Brock: I know, Einstein. Any suggestions?

Keenan: Burn the shit to the ground and start over?

Growling, I throw my phone to the edge of my desk.

Drastic times. Drastic measures. Drastic anger.

I could rebrand the names of some properties as an absolute last resort.

If I did that, the negative reviews might fall off the radar, but it would also zap my entire legacy, upset my grandparents, and we’d be starting from scratch.

No.

The best defense is a good offense, especially if there’s a chance this is a coordinated smear campaign.

I just need to figure out who the hell keeps stabbing me in the back and why.

I don’t have many enemies or petty grudges beyond the usual rivalries in this business. Who would want to one-star the fuck out of me?

My phone vibrates again.

I expect another message from Keenan, but this time, it’s Vanessa.

Hi. Fyo just told me he made arrangements to have the letters delivered. Thanks! It means the world to AJ. I know he appreciates it.

There’s one thing finally going right.

Brock: It’s the least I could do.And it is. Let me know if you need anything else, I add as I hit Send.

Keenan texts again. Focus groups?

Brock: We tried that months ago. The demographic is wildly different from the people leaving negative reviews. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with people. I think someone just has an axe to grind.

Is it possible?

He doesn’t answer for a couple minutes.

When his next message comes in, my gut clenches.

Keenan: …I don’t. Sorry, that’s a little paranoid. The reviews are at different resorts and you’d better believe I dug deep to see if those were bots or paid shills. No way. All real people.

My lip curls with disgust.

No matter how many times he pushes back with impeccable logic, I’m not convinced.

All my prestigious flagship properties can’t suddenly suck monkey balls.

Someone wants to bleed Winthrope dry, and I’m going to find out who.