Business & Pleasure

  Business & Pleasure

  Castille Hotel Series

  Alexis Winter

  A Novel

  By

  Alexis Winter

  * * *

  THIS IS A SECOND EDITION. REPUBLISHED WITH SEVERAL MAJOR UPDATES.

  Never mix business and pleasure

  Don’t sleep with the sexy, arrogant, manwhoring boss.

  * * *

  Don’t drool every time you look at his perfectly chiseled face and rock-hard body.

  * * *

  But mostly…don’t let him know you want him just as bad.

  Easy enough, right? WRONG.

  * * *

  Never in a million years did I think the sexy, mysterious stranger at the airport would stalk me and hire my design firm to redo his hotel chain.

  * * *

  I hate that I know the way he tastes…the way his lips feel against mine.

  * * *

  I hate that I still want him even after hearing him ram his headboard against our adjoining hotel room wall.

  * * *

  Mostly…I hate that I’m falling for him.

  * * *

  Can a no-strings-attached fling blossom into actual, head-over-heels love?

  * * *

  Or will a tragic accident ruin our chances forever…

  © Copyright 2019 by Alexis Winter - All rights reserved.

  * * *

  In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

  Respective authors own all copyrights not held by the publisher.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  1. Allison

  2. Vincent

  3. Alison

  4. Vincent

  5. Alison

  6. Vincent

  7. Alison

  8. Vincent

  9. Alison

  10. Vincent

  11. Alison

  12. Vincent

  13. Alison

  14. Vincent

  15. Alison

  16. Vincent

  17. Alison

  18. Vincent

  19. Alison

  20. Vincent

  21. Alison

  22. Vincent

  23. Alison

  24. Alison

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  1

  Allison

  Life has a funny way of not turning out the way you thought it would. Sometimes it’s irony, other times it’s a full-blown quarter-life crisis staring you in the face at twenty-five years old…in an airport bathroom.

  It’s crazy how one minute, you have your entire life planned out, and in a few short hours and a few impulsive, if not reckless, decisions later, your life has jumped the tracks and is now aimlessly barreling ahead at full speed.

  I splash cold water on my face and take in a few deep breaths, hoping it will calm the symphony of butterflies in my stomach. My knuckles have gone white as I grip the edge of the sink, willing myself to stay calm and pull it together. I hardly notice the endless stream of fellow travelers coming in and out.

  Once I’m calm enough, I reach into my purse and pull out a few makeup items to freshen myself up. What’s that stupid quote about giving a woman the right lipstick and she can conquer the world? Yeah, okay, show me that color, please. The woman who penned that never had a quarter-life crisis in a public restroom.

  After a little self-care and a mental pep talk, I feel good enough to emerge from my hideout, if only to make a beeline for the nearest bar. I feel a buzzing in my pocket as I exit the restroom and pull out my phone to check my messages.

  “Uggghhh, goddammit!” I groan petulantly as I read the ‘your flight is now delayed’ text from my airline. I even throw in a foot stomp for emphasis as I roll my eyes and grab my bag, heading off in search of that bar.

  Locating a decent-looking watering hole, I pull up my bag to a barstool and dramatically flop onto the seat. The bartender gives me a nod as if to say he sees me and will be over in a moment. I don’t even need to look at the menu to know what I want.

  I wasn’t a big drinker in college, despite a stressful double major and a demanding internship. I enjoy a nice glass of wine now and then, but when I need to calm my nerves or feel a buzz, I always go for a dirty vodka martini with extra olives. I rattle off my order to the bartender when he finally saunters over, barely giving him the chance to get out his pleasantries.

  The bar is dimly lit, even for an airport. It’s located in a more obscure part of the terminal and seems to be the bar people go to when they have a long layover or are stuck with a shitty delay like myself. I barely have the first sip of my very overpriced martini when I feel the familiar presence of a once-popular frat boy lingering near me. Why do they all feel the need to douse themselves in enough mediocre cologne to offend anyone within a fifty-yard radius?

  I set my drink back down when he leans himself against the bar, half-pressing himself against my arm as if personal space is a thing of the past.

  “Looks like you could use another,” he says as he sloppily points to my very full martini glass.

  “I haven’t even had a full drink of this one yet but thank you.” I smile politely but turn away quickly so as not to encourage him. This isn’t my first rodeo; I am very aware of the effect I have on men. I was blessed by the genetic gods with piercing blue eyes and naturally thick blonde hair. I’m not Barbie height, merely five-six, but I don’t have to do much to keep my hourglass figure and perky C-cups. I can’t complain, and I certainly don’t take it for granted, but it pretty much attracts douchebags like it’s their job. Sometimes I feel bad for them that they can’t seem to resist a full-breasted blonde woman. Very predictable, and very pathetic.

  My friends had given me the nickname Barbie since I was about thirteen years old. At the time, I had outgrown pretty much everyone in my grade and was the only middle schooler that stood head and shoulders above everyone else and had a full chest. Unfortunately, I stopped growing that same year. When I was younger, I was mortified by the attention my body got me; it was awkward as hell to be the only fifth grader wearing a sport’s bra at recess to play kickball.

  “So where you headed to? You live here in Dallas? I’d love to take you out sometime if you do. Or, hey, even if you don’t, I’d fly to take you out!” He gestures wildly as he speaks, almost too confident that his offer to take me out will surely melt my panties and leave me begging him for happily ever after.

  “No, no, I’m not local, and you haven’t even asked my name or introduced yourself, but you want to take me out?” He quickly jumps in and cuts me off, thrusting his hand out to grasp mine.

  “Trevor—”

  I hold up my hand to stop him as I interject, “Don’t bother. I won’t remember it, and I won’t be accepting the offer to hang out. I have had one helluva day, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to drink this overpriced and watered-down martini in relative peace, ok?” I smile to soften the blow, but it doesn’t seem to help.

  He rolls his eyes and backs away with his hands in the air as if to say he surrenders. Something tells me he’s probably been in trouble for his behavior in the past.

  “You know, you blonde bitches are all the same. Your loss, sweetheart,” he slurs. I lift my martini glass to him with a huge grin as I turn back around to face the bar and drown my sorrows.

  Relieved to no longer be gagging on the syrupy-sweetness of his cologne, I drum my fingers on the bar, unsure of what to do with myself or my time. Normally, I would be elbows deep in a design, but since I had unceremoniously walked in on my ex banging someone else, I wasn’t exactly in the headspace.

  “That was a pretty brutal rejection; you seem well practiced at it though.”

  I haven’t even noticed the man sitting to my left. There is an empty stool between us, but he clearly overhead my conversation with cologne boy. I turn my head to give him a snarky remark, but my words catch in my throat and I quickly down two large gulps of my martini. The liquor burns my throat, but it allows me the few extra seconds I need to gather my thoughts.

  This guy looks like he walked out of a catalog called Sexiest Men Alive. I know that’s a stupid way to describe someone but imagine all those guys that are in luxury car commercials and Ralph Lauren ads. The ones that somehow look like they work on Wall Street, are a secret agent, and could also be the leader of the free world while saving babies in their spare time…that’s this guy. It looks like the Greek gods hand-carved this guy to be their fucking mascot.

  He cradles a tumbler of amber liquid as he shoots me a coy smile, waiting for my response. His hair looks like waves of dark chocolate with a dusting of gray at the temples, and his eyes are the most vibrant green I have ever seen. The way his tailored suit hugs his body, I can imagine he keeps himself in amazing shape. Realizing I’m staring uncomfortably long at this stranger, I smile and shrug my shoulders at him, clearly still at a loss for forming coherent thoughts like a functioning adult.

  “Cheers to a shitty day. I heard you tell Trevor over there that you had a helluva day and I can commiserate with you there.”

  “Who?” I can feel my face wrinkle in confusion.

  “The lovely gentleman that just approached you,” he says, gesturing with a nod towards the table of rowdy frat guys.

  “Oh! Sorry, I guess I didn’t even catch his name.” I shrug my shoulders again as if this is the only form of primitive communication I’m capable of. I usually wasn’t so callous, but like I told Trevor, today is not my day.

  He lifts his almost empty glass in the air towards me and then swallows down the rest of the liquor. Almost without hesitation, the bartender scurries over and offers him another drink in a fresh glass.

  I raise my martini back to him and take another long sip. “The fucking worst,” I mutter almost to myself.

  “Swap stories? Wallow without judgment?” he asks with a raised eyebrow and a sexy smirk.

  I look down at my phone to check the time. “Might as well since my flight has been delayed for three hours.”

  He slides off his stool and settles back onto the one closest to me. He leans in, holding out his hand to me. I reach my hand out to meet him, very aware of my grossly sweaty palms. Of course, he smells fantastic. Like a fucking fantasy: expensive and refined with notes of sandalwood and oud.

  “Vincent Crawford.” He shakes my hand firmly as he raises an eyebrow as if to ask my name in return. A current of electricity travels through my body at his touch. Yup, this is the kind of guy who could completely fuck up your life in two-point-five seconds.

  “Alison. Alison Ryder,” I say, trying not to stare at his full lips.

  “Well, since I offered, I’ll go first, then you can decide how much you want to share to make me feel better about whining to a stranger.” I laugh a little as he moves the glass back and forth between his hands.

  “So, I work for a luxury hotel chain based in Chicago. I am currently in the middle of an acquisition in London and another possible one in Toronto. I am actually on my way to Canada now to meet with the current owner of a hotel there, after which I go home for a week or so, then off to London.”

  I sip my martini as he continues to expound on his travel plans that will be taking place over the next several months and the time it took to get everything organized.

  “So anyway, my executive assistant that helped me plan all of these trips was supposed to travel with me, but today, she up and quit because she fell in love and eloped. This caused a chain reaction of events: since she quit, she didn’t confirm my travel plans with my private jet, so they ended up submitting flight plans too late to get approved. Now I’m stuck on a commercial flight, which is getting me into Toronto at an ungodly hour, if it departs in the next hour as scheduled and causing me to miss my initial meeting.”

  I can see he is getting more and more exasperated, although he’s barely changed his cadence or demeanor, remaining calm. He’s clearly a meticulous and punctual man who doesn’t appreciate being late or having his schedule interrupted.

  “Jesus, that sounds like a nightmare. I’m sorry. Is your boss at least being understanding about everything?”

  He stares into his glass as he swirls the remaining liquor around before downing it. He shakes his head as he swallows. “Sorry, I forgot to mention, I am the boss. I own the company, so it’s just frustrating me more than normal that I am now stuck with no assistant to help me as I manage this possible new acquisition. Normally I’m very easy going, I like to think of myself as laid back, but when it comes to the reputation of my company, I can’t help but get a little riled up.”

  “Hey, I get it. I’m very type-A, so I can imagine how frustrating that would be. When’s your next trip after this one? Do you have time to hire an executive assistant before then?”

  “I’ll be in Toronto for four days, so I’ll have about ten days to interview and hire a new EA before flying to London for other business. I sent an email to my vice president’s secretary to see if she can help me get the ball rolling. The hard part will be finding someone willing to travel all over the damn globe almost immediately after starting. I prefer to build trust with someone before exposing them to such confidential information and putting those kinds of demands on them. Anyway, at this point, I’m just complaining. Your turn,” he says, raising his empty glass to me.

  “Well, we did agree we would wallow without judgment.” I finish the rest of my martini before launching into my story.

  “Funny enough, I am also from Chicago. Well—originally I’m from North Dakota, but I moved to Chicago for college and stayed because, well, it’s Chicago!” I’m rambling like a ditzy high schooler, my hands gesturing a bit wildly. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol, the frazzled state of my nerves, or the sexy stranger that has me acting completely out of character.

  “I’m an associate at a very prestigious design firm, Madeline Dwyer Designs…I did my internship there through undergrad and then worked my way up from junior associate to associate…working towards senior and then partner, or maybe owning my own firm someday. My fiancé is a senior associate at a big law firm, about to be made partner. He and I have been together for six years. I met him when I was still in school. I was working through my internship and went to a local bar where the lawyers from his firm frequented. He was a junior associate at the time.” I let out a big breath to gather my thoughts and try to slow the two martinis from going straight to my head.

  “So anyway, he proposed seven months ago, and we set a date for June of next year. Recently, his firm’s Dallas office took on a huge class-action lawsuit, and they needed some help so Brian, my fiancé, volunteered to go. He took a few of the interns with him, and they’ve been there for a few weeks. My boss asked me if I wanted time off to fly down and see him for a few days, and naturally, I jumped at the opportunity. I missed him and hadn’t seen him for so long.” I feel myself rambling, so I take another deep breath to steady myself.

  “So, short story long, I showed up to his hotel last night to surprise him and found him with one of his interns. He had her bent over the desk in the room and was giving her the business end of a deposition, if you know what I mean!” I snort, half at my punny joke and half to emphasize my point.

  Vincent smirks a little at the comment. “I did not go to law school, but I can deduce what that statement means.”

  “I didn't even say a word to him; I just turned around and left the room. I was shocked and didn’t even know what to do. He followed me and tried apologizing a nd giving every excuse in the book from ‘it’s not what you think,’ to ‘it’s your fault because you haven’t come to visit me here.’ I just took the ring off and handed it back to him, er—maybe I threw it at him; I can’t recall. We live together, so that’s another nightmare I have to figure out when I get back. I haven’t told my sister or my boss.”

  Shock registers on his otherwise passive face. “You win. Not that it’s a competition, that sounds rude, but fuck. You’ve had one shitty day. Not to pry, but did you suspect anything?”

  “I wouldn’t say I suspected infidelity but…the truth is I was settling. I think I was aware of that; I just didn’t want to admit it. When I met Brian, things were great; we were young and in love and all that. But now…” I feel my words slurring together. I am wildly out of character at this point. Miss Type-A, always in control and uptight, is letting it all out to a complete stranger. I rub my hand over my face, most likely smearing my makeup. “I mean, I still love him…it just fucking sucks to put your trust and faith in someone and have this entire life planned out and they just throw you away for someone that ‘didn’t mean anything.’” I make sure to use dramatic air quotes to emphasize my point.