Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Mrs. Daugherty doesn’t bother to listen to or look at me. She’s forgotten I exist. She’s staring up at Cole with love in her eyes now. Those bulging forehead veins have receded, draining their high-cholesterol contents back into the recesses of her now fluttering heart. If she could, she’d push her meek husband headlong into an active volcano. That’s how much she wants Cole. Blegh.
Realizing that my role here (in the daily theater play that is customer service) is done (thank god), I’m about to take a step to the side and make a speedy getaway, but then Cole’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, ensuring I stay put exactly where I am. His grip says, Not so fast. My heel stepping back onto the toe of his size-twelve oxfords replies, Let go of me, you jerk.
He does, immediately.
I have to stand there and listen to Mrs. Daugherty’s complaints all over again. She’s pointing at me. “This . . . this girl promised my husband and I that we would have an amazing time out on the water today, but I’m sad to report that just was not the case. Not in the least. This one right here—”
“Ms. Young,” Cole supplies for her.
“Ms. Young took us out onto the water all afternoon, and we have nothing to show for it. A few measly stingrays? A friggin’ dolphin? Big whoop. When my cousin, the travel agent, hears about this . . .”
Throughout her wild diatribe about her “cousin, the travel agent,” the threats of a “scathing Tripadvisor review,” and even a confused rant about how her daughter has “quite the following on TickClock,” Cole keeps his cool.
Ten minutes later—and with a heaping pile of drink vouchers in hand—Mrs. Daugherty walks away, barking orders at her henpecked husband to hurry up. Her complaint with me is officially settled.
I should turn around and thank Cole, but if I’m honest, I would rather go sip mai tais with the Daughertys.
I wish he would disappear in a puff of smoke or a cloud of bats and leave me to it, but no, he can’t resist.
“To be honest I’m surprised the whales were her only complaint,” he starts, and already I’m bracing myself. “Knowing it was your excursion, I was expecting to see blood.”
I turn around, mockingly slow, and give him a withering look that says, You’re dust. Nothing.
Unfortunately, I know what he’s referring to about the blood. As a member of Siesta Playa’s entertainment and hospitality department, my job is to lead excursions and activities for adventure-loving guests. Interested in surfing, sailing, or hikes that culminate beneath majestic waterfalls? I’m your girl. And so what if, very occasionally (well, the actuaries at our insurance say it’s 11.7 percent of the time), my zany excursions result in mild to moderate injuries? Ships are safest in the harbor, but that’s not why ships are built! Dr. Missick—our resort’s resident doctor—absolutely hates me because I’ve turned his cushy retirement job into a full-time urgent care center. Rock climbing abrasions, bruises and bites courtesy of trendy but ill-tempered yoga goats, and a burn every now and then from the weekly hot-coal walk are only the start. However, I would just like to point out that there are just as many buffet-related injuries at this resort. Just last week there was a kebab impalement and a chocolate-fountain scalding. My point is Dr. Missick’s ever-growing patient load is not all my doing, which is why it infuriates me that Cole keeps a whiteboard in the break room titled “Days Since Last Guest Injury” as an easy way to needle me.
During Mrs. Daugherty’s rambling, Cole was probably running a fine-tooth comb over her, searching for a wrap or a sling. It feels wonderful that, this time at least, I’ve only inflicted emotional trauma to a guest and he doesn’t get the satisfaction of erasing the single-digit number from the whiteboard.
I cross my arms and tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze with all the confidence I can muster.
“Just to be clear, that wasn’t my fault.”
One of his dark brows arches playfully. “So I gathered.”
“I zoned out for most of that. Did you tell her you’d make the whales contract employees in order to hold them accountable for their truancy?”
The side of his mouth very nearly curls. “I told her to stick to the bar. I said your excursions could sometimes be more trouble than they’re worth.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to pick him apart.
I’m sure there are nice, happy adjectives to describe Cole, but I refuse to consider any of them. His height is annoying. His deep-brown eyes are too dark. His tie is entirely too neat. I’m sun kissed and blonde, and he’s a workaholic grump. Truly, would it kill him to let down his expertly styled hair every once in a while?