“Fluke. Divine intervention. Either way, I’m grateful.”
Her smile widened as she put the car in gear. “You don’t happen to be Irish, do you?”
“Are you kidding?” He took a step back when her tires began to slowly crunch over the drive. “Gran’s name is O’Brien.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean you’re Irish. But if you are, it at least explains the gift you have for blarney!” Then she was driving away, leaving behind the sound of her laughter.
He stood there, long after her car was out of sight and the dust she’d kicked up was finally settled.
“Didn’t tell her, did you.” It wasn’t a question.
He exhaled sharply and turned to face his grandmother. “Do you ever get tired of being right all the time?”
“It’s a burden I’ve learned to bear,” she deadpanned.
Then she wielded her snips with deliberation and a dying rose fell to the ground.
Chapter Five
“...And that’s ‘Giving It All Up’ by the newest sensation—”
The radio went silent as Arabella turned off her engine. She stared through her windshield at the front facade of Hotel Fortune and wondered for about the hundredth time if she was really doing this.
Applying for a job at Hotel Fortune.
Any job.
Three days ago, Todd Bellamy had returned from his family vacation and three days ago, her job at Petunia’s Posies had ended.
She also hadn’t heard one word from Jay Cross. Not even after she’d spent several hours working in his grandmother’s garden more than a week ago.
Which, considering the way he’d kissed her in the potting shed, left her once again mired in a swamp of uncertainty. Was he interested in her or wasn’t he?
You’re the one who asked him to kiss you.
She swatted away the thought like an annoying fly. But like any respectable annoying fly, it just kept returning to the picnic.
She couldn’t even be certain whether or not her decision to actually seek a job at Hotel Fortune was because of Jay or in spite of him.
She got out of the car, slamming her car door harder than necessary, and straightened her shoulders as she marched through the entrance of the hotel.
She hadn’t been there since January. The only noticeable change to the Spanish Mission–style lobby since then were the flowers in the massive arrangement on the table positioned beneath a skylight centered in the soaring ceiling.
She stopped at the reception desk. “I have an appointment in human resources?”
The attendant was a young man who didn’t even look old enough to shave. “Third floor. Just follow the signs.”
“Thanks.” She headed for the elevators. There were very few people about. Only one middle-aged couple sat in the massive leather chairs in one corner of the lobby near the door. They had small suitcases sitting on the terra-cotta tiled floor next to them. Probably waiting for transportation. Another couple exited the elevator when the doors opened and Arabella stepped into the empty car and punched the third-floor button.
As the doors closed, she couldn’t help remembering the small elevator that Jay had shown her the day of Larkin’s party when she’d taken the twins outside to play.
“Stop thinking about Jay Cross,” she said under her breath. The soft bell chimed at the second floor and the doors slid open to reveal an empty corridor.
Arabella poked her head out of the car and seeing nobody standing by, ducked back inside and poked the close button a few times to hasten it along. She wouldn’t be cutting the time so closely for her appointment with the human resources department if she hadn’t had to change her outfit at the last minute thanks to Murphy’s muddy paws.
But the doors stubbornly refused to close at all. Not even pressing the third-floor button again garnered any results.
Huffing in frustration, she left the elevator and pressed the call button for its mate, but that button didn’t even light up and after another minute waiting for it to respond, she huffed again and headed down the corridor looking for signs for the stairwell.
As she went, she passed the entrance for Roja’s banquet room. The door was open and she glanced inside as she hurried past. Round tables—currently naked of tablecloths—were situated around the room. Then she remembered the stairwell they’d used in January and quickly found it around another corner. The heavy door clanged shut behind her and her heels rang out as she raced up the cement steps. She reached the landing where a door was marked with a black numeral 3.
She’d been on dozens of interviews in her life. She shouldn’t be so nervous now, yet she was. She drew in a deep breath and smoothed her hand down the side of her skirt before grasping the door handle and pushing it down.
The handle moved.
The door did not.
“No way.” She twisted the lever up. Twisted it down. But it remained locked. Cursing under her breath, she hurried back down the stairs, the whole way to the first floor, and burst breathlessly out of the door, inordinately relieved that it hadn’t been locked as well.
The stairwell hadn’t been particularly confining. Just a basic square tower filled with concrete steps and a bunch of doors that didn’t open, but she still felt shaky from nerves.
She smoothed her ponytail and hurried back to the lobby, passing a trio of people now waiting for the elevators along the way.
“One of them was stuck on the second floor,” she told them as she walked by, heading once more back to the reception desk.
The same young guy was there.
“That was fast,” he said as she stopped in front of him.
“Only because I couldn’t get up to the third floor.” She inhaled yet another deep, calming breath. “The stairwell doors are all locked on the inside.”
“It’s a security thing,” he said. “Unless you’re a guest with your room key, you can’t enter other floors except the main floor. Of course the fire department can override the locks in an emergency. The elevators—”
“—decided to hang out permanently on the second floor,” she interrupted, wanting to cut to
