Page 24 of Boss Me

After the clerk described their accommodations—private beachfront bungalows, a penthouse with an infinity pool, luxurious suites, spa rooms with whirlpool tubs—I asked her for her cheapest room. I’d have to ask Cooper to approve my expense report, and I didn’t want to have to justify an in-room massage table, no matter how much I needed it after the armrest-gripping flight.

They’d stonewalled me over the phone, but now that I was a guest, I hoped they’d be more cooperative. As I handed over my corporate card, I leaned in. “I’m meeting another guest. Cooper Fallon. Do you know where he’s staying?”

The front desk clerk pursed her red lips and jabbed my card into the reader. “I’m sorry, I can’t give out that information.”

“He’s on the property…somewhere,” I pressed her. If I were a spy in a movie, I’d slip her a crisp hundred-dollar bill. But I was fresh out of hundreds and also not an asshole. Instead, I gave her my brightest smile.

“Sorry, sir. I can’t tell you that.”

Shit. I’d have to wait for Marlee to let me know he’d spent money in a local bar or shop. Assuming she hadn’t gotten his charge privileges suspended. Meanwhile, I’d hunt him down at the resort’s restaurant or the pool.

The pool. I let myself imagine it for a moment. Cooper would be reclining in a lounge chair, reading the Wall Street Journal or the Financial Times. He’d wear a short-sleeved cotton shirt, open in the front, over a—I gulped—a Speedo? No, I’d never be that lucky. He’d wear regular, long trunks like I’d packed. I’d stand by his chair, the way I often did in the office, waiting for him to finish his article and acknowledge me. He’d lower the paper over the washboard abs I’d daydreamed about and lift his sunglasses to perch on top of his sandy-blond hair, ruffling in the breeze. And he’d say—

“How many nights?”

I refocused my gaze on the clerk. She blinked at me expectantly.

“Oh, just tonight, I think.” Though it was already late afternoon. Would I be able to find him that quickly? “Actually, better make it two.” In case I didn’t locate him right away and had to look for him the next day. Besides, I was in no hurry to get back in that rusty-can propeller plane at the island’s tiny airport. After covering for Cooper for almost a week, hauling my ass across the continental U.S., and puking up practically my entire digestive tract over the Caribbean Sea, I deserved two nights in a real bed at a fancy resort. And an umbrella drink or two.

Right after I found Cooper Fallon, told him what was happening back at the office, and reminded him that his place was there. I’d send him on his way on the fancy Synergy jet, and then I’d sit by the pool, sip something fruity to celebrate a job well done, spend one more night in a private bedroom without my sister tiptoeing past the couch in the middle of the night for a glass of water, and head home, patting myself on the back.

The clerk slid me a paper folio with two key cards inside and circled the far end of the main building in pink Sharpie on my copy of the resort map. “Bienvenido. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.” I took the folio and map and turned toward Ramón. He led the way toward a long hallway to the left. After we passed the elevator bank, he said softly, “Are you a friend of señor Fallon?”

A friend? Not exactly. But friend would probably get me farther than employee. “He left home and didn’t tell anyone where he was going. I’m concerned about him.” All true.

Ramón stopped and set my duffel on the Spanish tile. He scanned me, a speculative glint in his dark irises. “We are also his friends. We are concerned, too. Señor Fallon hasn’t been himself since he has been here.”

“Not himself?” Then I remembered he came here once or twice a year. The people at the resort knew him, at least a little.

“No. He’s—” He narrowed his eyes at me like he could see right through me to my heart. Then he nodded once. “Come. I’ll show you.” Shouldering my bag, he spun on the heel of his shoe and strode back the way we’d come. But instead of returning to the lobby, he turned off down a narrower hallway that ended at a glass door. He pulled open the door for me, and I stepped into the hotel’s bar.

The near half looked like a regular bar with bamboo floors, a low-pitched roof with exposed, dark wood beams, and high-top tables surrounding a central, square bar. A blender growled behind the glossy wood top. A dark-skinned bartender in a teal guayabera poked an umbrella into a tall glass of something pink—my mouth watered—and set it on the tray of a server, who carried it out to the far end of the bar.

The far end opened out onto the beach. The roof shaded the deck, but a few umbrella-topped tables stood directly on the beach, where people could drink with their toes in the sand and sunshine on their skin. I wiggled my own toes in my loafers. Maybe I deserved more than two nights to fully enjoy the island’s amenities. A gentle, warm breeze tickled my cheeks.

Ramón nudged my shoulder. “There.” I followed the jut of his chin toward the near side of the bar, which was occupied by a woman in a floral sundress and a huge straw hat, a man slumped over his drink, and another man who ogled a nearby table of college girls wearing thin cover-up dresses over their bikinis. My stomach sank like I was back on that prop plane. The dude had blond highlights in his hair like Cooper’s, but he wasn’t my boss.

I looked back at Ramón. Maybe I’d misunderstood him earlier, and we weren’t talking about the same person. But he nodded at the bar.

I checked it again, and this time, I caught the familiar shape of the forearm the man in the middle had slung onto the bar to clutch his whiskey. The same golden-hair-dusted forearm I’d salivated over on the few occasions Cooper had rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt in the office. It was wrapped with muscles and tendons and slightly freckled, especially if he’d spent the weekend on a bike ride. And now it was resting on the bar top, twenty feet in front of me, attached to a man who was sliding-off-his-stool drunk.

“What the—” I darted forward, inserting myself between the brim of the woman’s straw hat and my boss. I gripped his shoulder and tipped him straight. My hand, sticky with humidity, came away with tiny fibers stuck to it. Cooper wore a paper-thin charcoal gray sweater over a pair of black trousers. Shiny black dress shoes completed his ready-for-the-office look.

He shuddered and looked over his shoulder—the wrong one—and then turned to face me. His mouth slackened. “Ben?” A wave of alcoholic breath hit me. His cheeks were pink, and sweat slicked his forehead.

The bartender slid his gaze from me to Ramón. He nodded and took half a step back, pretending to wipe out a margarita glass but keeping one eye on Cooper and me.

“Cooper.” Mr. Fallon seemed out of place when my boss was drunk off his ass at an island bar in the Caribbean.

“Wha— Why—?”

Work talk—anything serious—would have to wait until he’d sobered up. I let one corner of my mouth turn up. “You look…hot.”

“Thankssss.” His red, unfocused eyes met mine. “Wait. Was that a come-on? Ben would never do that. You can’t be Ben. You’re a fanta—phantas—dream.” He shook his head, and one lock of his hair fell between his eyes and stuck to his brow.

“No, I’m real, and that wasn’t a pick-up line.” I grabbed a cocktail napkin and blotted the sweat from his forehead. “I’m wondering why you’re wearing a cashmere sweater when it’s eighty degrees out.”

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