We step into the small restaurant, and I’m instantly famished as the scents of fresh tortillas and spiced meats and cilantro greet us. “I want it all,” I say.
Ty chuckles, his hand back on my hip, which is quickly becoming one of my favorite places for his touch. I love the way he mindlessly traces my hip bone and reminds me of him gripping me when he moves inside of me. “You liked that chimichanga in Texas. Do you want to try that again? Or the street tacos? Or both?”
“Chimichanga,” I say, realizing how Nessie might be right about how much he knows about me and reveling in the fact.
I turn around, wondering if we should grab a separate table when Nessie waves an arm at me, moving her purse off the table that’s meant for four.
“Go,” Ty says softly. “I’ll order.”
Hesitation lingers in my thoughts, keeping me in place.
“I’m glad you have them, and I know how important they are to you. I knew that from the beginning. I won’t interfere with that. Their connections with you only make me want to work harder to be the person you would get lost in the desert with or punch someone in the face for. I don’t want to replace them—I can’t replace them—I want to cut out my own place in your heart that is just us—just me.”
I kiss him because words aren’t sufficient or adequate for how he makes me feel.
23
Tyler
I glance at the clock and sigh, rolling my shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension as I reach for my phone to text Chloe.
Me: I’m sorry. This is taking much longer than I’d hoped.
Chloe: It’s totally okay. I understand.
I start a dozen responses, wondering if Cooper or Vanessa is with her and trying not to sound like a possessive dick with the questions that linger as the time stretches.
Jim, the GM for this hotel, sits down with a filled cup of coffee, his intention to sit here for several more hours clear as he takes a seat, each of his moves unhurried.
“You know, what you’ve sent me is a great start. Why don’t you take some time to consider the questions I’ve asked you and compile some quotes for those projects you mentioned and we can discuss them further.” Jim would try and squeeze blood from a fucking turnip, I’ve realized. We’ve spent most of the afternoon with him asking for things he doesn’t need simply to increase his budget because he’s got this false sense that if he doesn’t get it now when he doesn’t need it, he might not when he does.
“I want to discuss some line items in the budget,” I continue, opening the spreadsheet I’d marked up last night while Chloe slept, her back exposed as the sheets pooled at her waist. We’d had sex with her sitting on the bathroom counter and then with her bending over the counter, allowing me an amazing view of her breasts as I thrust inside of her. I recall the curve of her back and shoulders, the pleasure that had her moaning my name. How we’d sat on the bed in our underwear, feasting on room service while I told her about the first time my Uncle Kip got me drunk when I was fourteen and how I refused to drink again until freshman year at Brighton. I can still smell her skin as I crawled over her last night and woke her up by tracing over her nipples with my tongue until they peaked—so reactive and sensitive to every touch. We ordered room service at three in the morning, and I listened to her explain how our galaxy was the shape of a fried egg and how each galaxy has its own story, potentially formed in different ways, all of which are largely debated. She listened to my questions that seemed rudimentary in comparison to the concepts she was sharing with me, patiently explaining more information that only created more questions, and with each one I asked, her eyes seemed to burn a bit brighter with an energy and appreciation as she shared this part of her life that I’ve always known meant a great deal. It was fucking beautiful.
“Sure,” Jim says, visibly annoyed by my change in the conversation. “Which items were you curious about?”
“The concierge lounge. I like this idea, and I’m curious where it’s going and what it will offer guests?”
His brow furrows. “Lounge?”
I nod, spinning my laptop to face him. “It appears there’s been a budget for food, construction, alcohol, staff…”
He looks across the details and figures and shakes his head. “You must have the wrong information. Is this for San Francisco? Hawaii? This sounds like something Hawaii would implement.”
I open my file to provide the hard copy I’d printed yesterday before leaving Vegas. “Unless the accountant made a mistake, this is what I received.” I slide the stack of papers to him.
He shakes his head. “I’ll have to ask Mr. Avery. Maybe he was planning something?” He looks at me, his confusion falling. “Have you spoken to your father? He probably knows what this is.” He’s smug, the cocky son of a bitch. His large salary and power over several hundred employees provide him the false sense of bravado that has me itching to flex my power over him.
I shake my head, knowing he’s not worth it. He might be an annoying little shit, but he has good numbers, and his staff likes him. His issue seems to be with me alone; likely my age or possibly the nepotism, unaware that I grew up learning the ins and outs of the Banks Hotel chain. “I’ll be certain to ask him because I can’t imagine his surprise at finding five million dollars unaccounted for.” I start to gather the papers, but he reaches for them.
“Before you call him, let me talk to our accountant. Maybe this was filed incorrectly.”
I push my seat back and close my
