Susan Mallery - Daughters Of The Bride

“Yes, dear, but sometimes it’s nice if you don’t have to.”

* * *

Actually writing a marketing plan wasn’t that big a deal. It was getting to the point where it could be written that was the tough part. Courtney decided to reward her three hours of tedious research and number crunching with some ice cream and maybe a cookie chaser.

She stood and stretched as she weighed the sugar high against having to leave her room. In truth, the trip from the fourth floor to the kitchen was no big deal. Still, it was late and she should probably just go to bed.

But the thought of ice cream could not be denied. She saved her work on her laptop, then walked to the door.

Her room in the hotel was at the end of the hall, by the stairs. It was tucked next to the linen closet and right by one of the HVAC units, not to mention several water pipes. There was also a large tree that had grown tall enough to completely block any hope of a view beyond leaves. In short, a complete disaster to rent to guests.

Joyce had tried remodeling it several times and even offering it at a discount, but there were always complaints. A couple of years back, she’d come to Courtney with a trade. Free room and board in exchange for a certain number of hours of maid labor. For the time Courtney worked beyond that, she got a paycheck.

The deal gave them both what they wanted. Courtney had taken possession of an old twin bed Joyce had been ready to toss, along with a battered desk and a dresser. She was a sound enough sleeper not to care about the HVAC or pipe noise and the lack of view was totally fine with her. Free rent, meals and utilities meant she only had to work enough to pay for her car, cell phone and books. The money she’d saved for college wasn’t quite enough to cover tuition, but she’d been lucky enough to land a few scholarships and grants. Every semester she managed to squeak by. Now she was only a year away from graduating, and with luck she would do so without a loan.

“Yet another reason to celebrate with ice cream,” she told herself.

She took the stairs to the main floor and crossed the quiet lobby. Her sneakers were silent on the hardwood floor. While her threadbare jeans and secondhand USC sweatshirt weren’t exactly haute couture, she knew the odds of running into a guest at this hour were slim.

She didn’t bother with overhead lights in the kitchen. She knew her way in the twilight produced by the soft glow from under-the-counter illumination and exit signs. She collected a bowl and a spoon, then crossed to the walk-in freezer to pick her flavor.

She walked out with a three-gallon container of vanilla chocolate chip and found herself in the brightly lit kitchen, facing a tall, broad-shouldered man.

She shrieked and jumped. The ice cream slipped from her hands. She grabbed, he grabbed and they both ended up with their arms wrapped around a very cold, very large container.

They were close enough for her to see the various shades of blue in his irises and inhale the scent of clean fabric and man. His jaw was strong, his beard about two days old and his gaze piercing. Her heart thundered in her chest, but it had very little to do with shock and everything to do with attraction.

“One of us should let go,” he said.

“What?” Oh, right. She immediately released the container and straightened. “Um, sorry. You startled me.”

“I got that.” He put the ice cream on the counter. “Late-night snack?”

“Something like that.”

They continued to watch each other. One corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.

“I’m Quinn.”

Seriously? “We all know who you are. There are all kinds of pictures of you in Joyce’s bungalow. Plus, she talks about you all the time.”

He groaned. “I don’t want to know what she says.”

“Most of it is good.”

His brows rose. “Most?”

Courtney grinned. “You said you didn’t want to know. I’m Courtney, by the way. We’ve met a few times before.”

“I remember.”

She doubted that. A man like Quinn would remember meeting Rihanna and Taylor Swift, but not someone like her. She would have been nothing but staff, and who remembered the woman who cleaned his room?

She pointed at the container. “It’s vanilla chocolate chip—our flavor of the month. You want some?”

“Sure.”

She grabbed a second bowl and spoon, then scooped out ice cream for both of them. She returned the container to the freezer. When she walked back into the kitchen, she half expected to find Quinn had gone. But he’d pulled up one of the stools by the counter as if he planned to stay. She did the same, careful to leave a polite amount of space between them.

“Oh, there are cookies, too,” she said. “If you want some.”

“No, thanks. This is enough.”

Not a philosophy she could get behind, but now she wasn’t comfortable adding a couple of crushed cookies to her bowl. Later, she promised herself. She would take them up to her room.

“You’re up late,” he commented.

“I like the hotel at night. It’s quiet. All the guests are asleep. Or at least not wandering around, making trouble.”

“Is that how you see them?”

“You’ve never cleaned up a hotel room after a rowdy party.”

“That’s true.”

They ate in silence for a few seconds. Courtney found the moment surreal. Quinn might not be an actual rock star, but he was famous for discovering musical talent of all kinds and taking those talents to the top of the charts.

“A fan?” he asked, nodding toward her.

It took her a second to realize he meant her sweatshirt. She glanced down at the USC college logo. “Not really. One of the guests left it behind and it was way too nice to throw out.”

She remembered the pretty but tearful coed who’d tossed the sweatshirt at her, demanding it be burned.

“It had been her fiancé’s, and it turned out he’d slept with one of the strippers hired for his bachelor party.” She licked her spoon. “I’ll never understand the whole concept of inviting trouble a few days before you commit yourself to someone for the rest of your life. But weddings are all about drama.” She eyed him. “Are you really moving back to Los Lobos?”

He nodded.

“But you live in LA.”

“That’s not necessarily a good thing.”

“Isn’t your business there?”

“It’s mobile. I’m ready for a change.”

She wondered if any part of his decision was about his grandmother. “She’s doing fine, you know. Mentally and physically.”

“Thanks for the update. She’s not the only reason, but she’s one of them.” He paused.

Courtney took a bite of ice cream. As if he’d been waiting for her to be in that delicate act of swallowing, he then said, “She’s trying to fix us up.”

Courtney began to choke.

He waited until she’d regained control to add, “Or have me take you on as a project. Which makes me wonder why you need fixing.”

The door was so far away, Courtney thought longingly as she glanced toward the exit. She ignored the heat burning her cheeks. There was no pretending that wasn’t happening, not with the overhead lights blaring down. In a matter of seconds, she knew her face was as brightly colored as her sweatshirt.

“You’re imagining things, I’m sure,” she managed, thinking that as much as she loved her boss, she was going to have to kill her. There was no other response that was appropriate.

He waited.

She sucked in a breath. “I don’t need fixing. I’m doing great. I’m only two semesters from graduating with my bachelor’s in hotel management. I have a good job and lots of friends.”

“You’re twenty-seven.”

She was torn between wondering how he knew that and the relevancy of the statement.