“I have to pee, be back in a sec.” My sister rushes off, likely to avoid my wrath. I gather a breath, wishing a gigantic tremor would open the beautiful Italian marble floor and swallow me.
“She had good intentions, Zoë.”
I look up at Mark and press my lips. At one point, for whatever reason, I said yes to marrying this man, but right now all I want to do is strangle him.
“You know I didn’t mean for this to happen, right?”
Ugh. I want to say, I think you did. I think you used me to get close to Fiona again. Instead, I say, “Mark, does apologizing make you feel better?” Eyeing him with a strength I don’t feel, I add, “Because it doesn’t do shit for me.”
“I’ll go see about the other room,” he mumbles, and shuffles away like a forlorn child.
How did my dream vacation-slash-fresh start morph into my own personal hell? And what atrocious karmic fuckup did I commit to deserve it?
“Ms. Wayz?” I look up and see Amadeo Pellegrino, hands on hips in front of me. He’s tall, with impossibly wide shoulders, dark hair, and blue eyes so light it’s like looking into the Caribbean sea. His lips, though very kissable, are currently pressed firmly into a disapproving frown. My stomach drops.
I stand, floundering for words. Luckily, he’s not expecting any.
“Follow me.” He doesn’t extend a hand or even check to see that I’m following. He just leads the way.
I scoop up my carry-on, toss my handbag over my rolling luggage and follow like an obedient little puppy.
Chapter Two
Amadeo
The woman seems to cower as she enters my office. It throws me off, since in all of our previous communications, she’d been nothing but grateful for my time, confident and sweet. I’d actually looked forward to our conversations before her ulterior motive came to light.
Zoë had come across as energetic, genuinely curious about me, my resorts, and life in general. One of those people that seemed to want to experience everything life had to offer. And she was humble despite her thriving social media presence.
I hadn’t been interested in much the last few years, other than my business of course, but she’d been changing that as we’d started discussing a plethora of topics beyond work, topics that awoke excitement in me. We’d often discuss food, travel, science and history, and sometimes for over an hour at a time. Although we hadn’t gotten too personal, I was starting to like her as more than a business acquaintance.
And that was a fucking miracle.
Ah, and then that shitty email with not-so-subtle threatening undertones, showed me she was just like all the rest.
She had the fucking nerve to demand I not only find rooms in my fully booked resort to accommodate her sister, her sister’s fiancé, great-grandmother, and several other people, but also she’d expected the use of my wedding venue and coordinator. All with less than three weeks notice and she wanted it fully comped.
Or else the plans we’d been working on for the last four months might fall through.
“Have a seat, Ms. Wayz.” My words are clear but they must carry a growl of annoyance, at least that’s what I see in her expression.
The wedding event, and her social media coverage of it, will no doubt benefit the resort, but I don’t like the way she does business. Weirdly, if she’d asked me nicely to try to accommodate her needs, I would have done it.
We’d been renovating a wing of the hotel so both a block of rooms and a small venue hall weren’t booked. I would have simply moved up the remodeling plans for her. And that’s what I ended up doing regardless, but I’d done it begrudgingly.
I’d been excited about working with her—as excited as a grumpy asshole like me can get anyway. But no, she chose to be a demanding diva like every other fucking woman I know who isn’t an employee.
“Please call me Zoë. I’m so excited to finally meet you in person. I feel like I already know you.”
I grunt in reply as she starts unloading her luggage, plopping into the chair across from me. I fold my hands, teepeeing them, wondering why the hell her luggage is all over my office.
“Should I have someone come get all this?” My lip curls at the haphazard pile and she starts apologizing. I hate fucking clutter. In fact, I hate anything that’s messy and that includes disheveled, albeit, adorable, influencers blackmailing me for their personal gain.
So why the fuck am I sporting a semi right now?
I hold up a hand and Zoë Wayz stops rambling, her face flushing pink. I grab my cell, dialing the front desk.
“Can someone please get Ms. Wayz’ luggage and have it brought to her room?”
