Meeting Madison Page 3

  “It just feels cheap,” she mutters for the umpteenth time. “Like I’m whoring myself out.” Maddie parades around the room in yet another tight, bright mini dress before ducking back behind the privacy screen.

  “No one is pimping you out, Mads.” I dry-wash my face with my hands, letting myself sink down into the sofa. “But I wouldn’t show up in sweatpants. There are expectations when you’re dealing with men like this.”

  “Trust me, I know all about men and your expectations.” Madison’s voice is muffled as she presumably strips out of this dress and into the next. There’s accusation in her tone. I think about defending my honor against the unspoken dig. It seems a little like cheating, though.

  Especially since I can’t stop picturing Maddie behind the thin silkscreen that separates us, surrounded by thousands of dollars in designer clothes, stripped down to nothing but that simple black cotton bra she left outside my bedroom door.

  “What about this one?” Maddie asks. I’m reluctant to even look up — so far, we’ve agreed on absolutely nothing.

  I’m glad I do because it’s utterly perfect.

  Tight enough to hint at what lies beneath without being overtly sexual. It’s simple and black. Cinched at the waist, accentuating her curves with just the slightest dip of cleavage. Timeless, really. Maddie could wear nothing but that dress for the rest of her life and I’d be happy.

  “You’re right, it’s terrible. I’ll —” She starts.

  “Stop.” I don’t raise my voice, but there’s no humor in it, either. The sudden imperative is enough to arrest her in place.

  I stand up, closing the distance between us in three quick steps. I brush at her exposed shoulder, leaning in to inhale her perfume and whisper in her ear.

  “It’s perfect. You’re perfect. I wouldn’t change a single thing.” I lean back, looking her straight in the eyes, gauging her reaction to my words. This close, I can count the spattering of freckles across her nose. They’re faint enough you can’t normally see them, remnants of a youth no doubt spent in the sunshine.

  She smiles again, that small smile, the one that makes warmth begin to pool deep in my stomach.

  “Thank you. I think it needs one thing though.”

  “Oh?” I ask, my whisper hoarse. We’re close enough I can feel her breath tickling my skin, and it makes my cock ache to feel her breath against every part of me.

  “Shoes. Unless, of course, barefoot and helpless is part of the look you had in mind?” She asks. Madison’s smile twists into a sardonic grin, her eyebrow arching as if to punctuate the mocking question.

  I groan, stepping back to grab my phone.

  “Right. Shoes. I’m an idiot. I just assumed you’d have some. I knew you didn’t have the dress, I should have thought about shoes. It’s just, well, I don’t know any girls who don’t already have a pair for any occasion.”

  “Well, now you do.” Maddie grins.

  “Alright. I’ll get some shoes delivered. You hang tight. We can still make this meeting.”

  “I’m sorry, the meeting is today? Mason, what the fu—”

  “Don’t worry. Trust me, alright?”

  “I’d be more inclined to trust you if I wasn’t barefoot right now.”

  “Fair. Okay. I’ll go get you some shoes, then you have to trust me.”

  “That’s not what I said, Mason!”

  But I’m already out the door.

  Chapter 5

  Madison

  Roll down the window, put down the top. Crank up the Beach Boys, baby. Don’t let the music stop. — Randy Newman, ‘I Love L.A.’

  Mason is as good as his word.

  Within ten minutes, there’s a knock at the door. It’s a good thing because I don’t think I can stand to be alone with my thoughts right now. I open up the door to Mason’s room and one of the private boutique owners is back with a whole new stack of boxes.

  “Mr. Black said you’d want a selection of colors, shapes, and” the man consults the notes in his hand with a questioning look. “Sizes?”

  “Yeah,” I shake my head dramatically at the guy. “My feet are different sizes. Hideous birth defect. I’m basically Quasimodo.”

  I’m not sure who licked all the red off his candy, but the man doesn’t seem the least bit amused at my joke.

  “Right.” He nods. “Well, I’ll just leave these here for you.”

  With the door closed once more, I’m left surrounded by a whole new stack of unfamiliar boxes. It takes longer than I want to admit to myself before I ease the top off the first box.

  Each dress I wriggled into felt like a torture exercise, a spotlight designed to focus in on each ounce of extra margarita and pound of muffin top I’m carrying around.

  I didn’t miss the way Mason’s eyes dragged across every inch of me, no matter how much skin was on display. Even that manages to wreak havoc on my psyche. Dueling doubts tumble around in my head. Daddy’s warnings about the one thing every man wants from a woman versus the cutting words I use against the girl in the mirror every time I get out of the shower.

  What’s worse, I like the way he looks at me. Dirty trick or not, there’s a hunger in Mason’s Black’s cobalt eyes when he fixes them on me, and I want more of it.

  I want all of it.

  Finally, I shove the top box open, pulling out the sleek pair of black stilettos inside.

  Speaking of hunger. Me-ow.

  Dresses might be torture, but shoes on the other hand—

  “How many pairs did Mason say I can choose again?” I murmur out loud in the empty expanse of the living room.

  “He said go nuts, and stock up for the week.” The reply comes not from a sentient stack of shoeboxes standing in front of me, but from somewhere down the hall.

  I recognize the voice immediately, and can’t help but laugh out loud at being caught lusting after Louboutins.

  “Adele, how long have you been there?” I call out in the direction of the entry hall with a shake of my head.

  Rosa's youngest daughter steps into the room with a bashful smile. She’s a round-faced brunette with deep-set dimples who started working on the housekeeping staff not long after I did. She’s probably my closest friend on the staff.

  “I came in after Mr. Black, but right before the first shoe guy,” she inclines her head at the dust mop in her hand. “I was just going to get to work, but it was hard not to hear what was going on. I heard you were working directly under Mason now.”

  Adele gives me a wicked half-grin. From anyone else, I would have taken offense to the insinuation. But she and I have always gotten along well; two rule-breakers with the best of intentions. Like me, Adele can never pass up the opportunity to stop and take in the view on the cliffs, or spend an afternoon soaking up the sun on the sandy shore of the beach. Despite coming from two different worlds, there’s a reason she and I get along so well.

  I wonder if Mason knows how much The Pine Bluffs means to people who can’t even afford to spend a night here?

  “Come on,” I tug her towards the stack of shoeboxes awaiting my inspection. “I need help picking out some shoes.”

  Adele squeals in delight, tossing her dust mop to the side as she rushes along.

  “Yes!” she rubs her hands together in an exaggerated demonstration of excitement. “You’ve got to enjoy this Cinderella moment for all of us, Maddie. You owe it to us.”

  There’s a kernel of something buried in Adele’s playful tone that buries itself inside of me. I pull her in for a quick, tight hug before diving into the shoes in front of us.

  I wasn’t lying when I told Mason I’m not a girly girl. I’ve never been into things like makeup and fashion. The truth is, I’ve never seen the point. I’ve got nothing against pink ruffles and sparkly eyeliner. It’s just never appealed to me.

  The very first pair of shoes I pull out of their cardboard box, lovingly wrapped in thin layers of tissue, has me rethinking my policy on overpriced designer goods.

  I trace the
red bottoms of the gorgeous black Louboutin heels with reverence.

  “Those are the sexiest goddamn shoes I’ve ever seen in my life,” Adele whispers my exact thoughts out loud. “Try them on.”

  I wince at the thought of forcing my foot into them, but I plop down on the edge of the couch obligingly anyway. To my surprise, they fit like a glove. Better than every pair of Payless specials in my closet, the needle-thin heels hug feet like they were made for me.

  Huh. Who knew? Could it be that dad lied and Payless isn’t, in fact, “just as comfortable” as real shoes?

  “Damn, girl.” There’s frank admiration in Adele’s voice. It’s enough to give me the courage to strut over to the floor-length mirror by the door.

  I almost don’t recognize the girl looking back at me.

  The snug black dress manages to be both sophisticated and suggestive without giving too much away. The ruching along the front is flattering, the deep vee neckline sexy in a way I never thought I’d be comfortable with. My legs look long in these shoes.

  Coltish. The word flashes in my mind, dredged up from the back of some borrowed library book or drugstore romance novel. It works, though, and I give my reflection a grin for the first time in my life, the hint of red peeking up from my soles in an utterly seductive way.

  “You look ready to kick ass and take names.” Adele comes up behind me in the mirror, all smiles.

  The little spark inside me flickers to life at that. Maybe that’s what I really like about the outfit. It’s not just that it makes me look great— it makes me feel confident. God knows I’m going to need it, too, walking into a meeting with Mason and his business partners armed with nothing but a blank notepad and a great pair of shoes.

  “Ok, Adele. I’m leaving you in charge of sorting the rest of the shoes while I deal with the boys.”

  “Go on, Cinderella. Stop stalling,” she laughs at that, shooing me towards the door with the duster. “When you’re done breaking hearts see if you can’t get us all a raise.”

  Alright. I look the part. Now, time to act like I’m worth a million dollars.

  The girl in the mirror winks back at me before I turn towards the front door.

  Yes. I’m a bad bitch. I can do this, and then, then I can be free of all of this. Free of the crappy car, free to get a better job, free of Mason.

  The thought should bring me joy. It doesn’t. The thought of leaving my Pine Bluff family feels much worse than driving away from Atlanta in a cloud of dust ever did. And the idea of never seeing Mason’s ocean eyes ever again is like a slice straight through the heart.

  I shake my head, gathering my thoughts. There’s no time to think this through.

  Literally.

  The phone clasped between my too-slick palms vibrates the moment I step out of Mason’s front door. It’s a text from my new boss, informing me that the business meeting starts in a little less than half an hour.

  The business meeting that Mr. Black failed miserably to prepare me for, on account of hiring me less than twenty-four hours ago, and wasting an entire morning playing Pretty Woman. That leaves me— I check the time again as my new heels clip a sharp cadence on the stone pathway— not nearly enough time.

  Walking in these shoes isn’t quite as comfortable as just trying them on was. But it’s not as bad as I fear, either.

  Definitely the most comfortable pair of thousand dollar shoes I’ve ever worn.

  Alright. I’ll return everything else, but I’m keeping the shoes.

  The meeting is taking place in the luxurious west dining room. Jutting out over the highest part of the beach, it’s one of the most popular spots on the hotel grounds for weddings and vow renewals. I have to hand it to Mason. The enclosed porch is framed in redwood with one of the most ridiculously gorgeous views of the beach I’ve ever seen. I never would have imagined a board room could act as an unfair advantage.

  The shining blue Pacific beckons.

  For once, I know everyone else is feeling it. That pull that brought me all the way out west from Georgia in the first place, that same yearning that makes me stop and romanticize on the winding paths every night, taking in the look of the grounds in the tye-dye lights of sunset.

  “It’s the perfect meeting place. They’ll agree to anything if it means a chance to get out onto that warm sand.”

  Mason wasn’t wrong. It’s the perfect venue.

  “Alright, gentlemen, thank you for coming. Now that Ms. Carter is here, we can get started.”

  Mason rubs his hands together, smiling at the assembled group of men as I step into the space. Awash with sunlight, he’s somehow even more beautiful. The tailored suit he’s wearing moves along with every motion of his long, broad body.

  I smile at the men seated along at the table as I walk in. Old, wealthy, pale, and grumpy. They’re so similar they might as well be wearing a Rich Southern White Guy uniform. Hell, I’m pretty sure that Colonel Sanders is at the head of the table. Three of the men turn to look in my direction at me at Mason’s introduction. Only one is gauche enough to openly gawk, but none of them are quick to look away.

  “Now, if you’ll turn to page two,” Mason holds up a well-laminated folder. There’s an identical one in front of every place setting, but if he thinks anyone in the room can possibly look at spreadsheets when the vastness of the Big Sur shore was exploding just beyond the floor to ceiling windows, he’s mad. “You’ll see that our numbers for this quarter are holding steady. They’ve been increasing at the same rate for the last two years. Surveys show that—”

  “Son,” The man sitting closest to where I’m standing interrupts Mason. There’s a distinct twang to his voice, a slow southern pull that makes me suddenly homesick. “We didn’t come here to go over the numbers.”

  “We could do that in an email.” The older man chimes in. His bushy white beard and prickly eyebrows move stiffly as he talks. “What we want to know is why we should sell this land to you in particular.”

  Mason clears his throat, clearly taken aback. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him even remotely flustered.

  “Uh, well, that’s a good question, sir.” Mason starts, but one of the other guys cuts him off. He’s by far the youngest at the table— probably not much older than Mason himself if I had to guess.

  “Hell, you got a nice place here. But so did the Yanks. So did them boys from London.” He’s wearing a black cowboy hat, and when he takes it off to drag his hand through straw-colored hair, I’m not expecting the earnest look he levels at Mason. “We’ve got a lot of people interested in our little chunk of paradise. What’s so special about you?”

  “It’s love.” The words are past my lips before I even realize I’m throwing myself into the fray. Everyone turns towards me, the buzz of conversation coming to a sudden halt.

  I’m hyper-aware of almost a dozen eyeballs drilling into me. Mason gives me a quick grin from the back of the crowd.

  “Excuse me, miss—”

  “No, I don’t think I will.” I cross my arms, giving the young cowboy a quick smirk.

  He stares at me, eyes blank and mouth wide open. The rest of the men begin to chuckle.

  “Love is what separates us from the other vultures sniffing around, looking to snap up your property. A family. Other hotels could have pitched you all sorts of numbers, told you all about the money you’ll make.” I shake my hand vaguely, as if batting away gnats.

  “You’re rich men. You don’t need more money. But you do need a legacy. Something that will be cared for and nurtured. You need a family.”

  I fix Mason with a small smile as I step forward, grabbing the hand of the flabbergasted southern grandpa still staring at me.

  “We can give you that.” I give him a gentle tug, pulling him up and to his feet.

  “Come on, guys. Let’s get out of here,” I turn to lead the troupe of men out of the room. “You need to really experience this place to understand. It’s about more than just sitting here looking out the windows. You
need to breathe the air, watch the waves. Mostly, though, you need to meet the people.”

  “I’m not sure we’re dressed for the beach, young lady.” The white-haired man— J. Callahan, if the monogram on his handkerchief is to be believed— harrumphs, though he gives my forearm a pat as I lead him and the rest through the glass and wood doors.

  “Oh, come on. Can’t keep up with a couple of whippersnappers?” I tease, leaving my hand on his arm. It’s shameless and we both know it, but I can’t seem to help myself.

  “I’m not sure anyone can keep up with her,” Mason eggs the men on.

  “I might not mind trying.” The cowboy gives me a decidedly appreciative glance as he sweeps outside with the rest of us.

  Mason responds with a flash of possessiveness— the briefest shift in his demeanor. It’s over so fast I’m almost not even sure if I saw it. Just a half a heartbeat where his laid-back grin sharpened to something fierce and territorial. Somewhere inside of me, the tiny kernel of self-esteem threatens to blossom, overflow altogether.

  “Well, if you guys can’t keep up,” I clear my suddenly dry throat. There’s a heat in my cheeks that has nothing to do with the afternoon sun high above the beach. “All the more reason you should let us run your new hotel.” I breeze out of the room, heels clacking, not even bothering to look behind me.

  I know every man in there is going to follow me out— would follow me into hell itself.

  Mason included.

  It feels good. Powerful in ways I never knew I could be.

  The next two hours pass in a blur. I take the Callahan team on a tour of the property. I show them every amenity, let the guys sample every luxury. I take them to the spa and introduce an old southern man to his first mani-pedi. We hike up to the trails, where they can admire the actual redwoods, as opposed to sitting back and ordering a mai tai on a deck made of them.

  And everywhere, I point out all the details. The team. The behind-the-scenes people and differences that make The Pine Bluffs Escape not just another five-star California cookie-cutter hotel.