1
[Noah]
If someone told me I’d be stuck in a storage closet of sorts, sitting on a closed toilet lid, facing the most ridiculous woman, while she stands before me in a rather compromising position, I’d never believe him.
I, Noah Weller, was better than this.
But still my gaze remains fixated on her hips before roaming to the tops of her legs where her inner thighs kiss right there. I can’t look upward as the next thing I’ll see are two of the most luscious breasts, round, supple, and mouthwatering.
Damn, I need to get laid.
Only, not with her.
Tessa Brogan is infuriating, and it’s all her fault we’re stuck in here.
I’d been wandering down the second floor of Bluebird Hollow Inn when I’d noticed a door slightly ajar. At first glance, the inside of the tight area looked like a restroom, complete with the smallest sink I’d ever seen and a toilet, and not much more space. However, the room also contained supplies. An eclectic mix of cleaning supplies and paper products stashed around the toilet and stored on open shelves above it.
The closet slash restroom also contained Tessa. Wine-red hair, freckle-smattered face, lake-blue-eyed Tessa, wearing snug leggings and a short shirt that exposed her waist. She’s in her late thirties but dresses like a teenager. She also has the body to pull it off with the ripest ass and curvy hips.
“This will not do.” When I stepped into the area smaller than a two-person shower, the dimensions were even tighter than I suspected, especially when my entrance pressed my front against Tessa’s aforementioned backside. She stood upright immediately from her bent-over position, where she was seeking something tucked beside the toilet. At the same time, I pulled the doorknob to close us off from voices I heard traveling down the long hallway.
That was when the doorknob fell off into my hand.
“Fuck.” Tessa spun to face me. Her hip dragged over the center of my zipper region, and my dick has a mind of its own around this woman—mainly wanting to be at full mast.
“What?” she’d asked in her smoky tone. “Whatcha do now?”
“Me?” I raised the doorknob, waving the golden bulb close to her nose. “This is all you.”
The Bluebird Hollow Inn has character and charm. The place is reminiscent of older times when people of wealth wanted extended stays in the summer months near Lake Michigan.
The place also needs some serious updates and an overhaul on management.
That’s where I come in.
I’d worked for an elite hotel in downtown Chicago. The Magellen was forty-six glorious floors overlooking the splendor of the lake, and I’d been there for fourteen years. When I left them, I had every intention of working for another place of grandeur, someplace delightfully warm and tropical.
For now, I am reduced to this.
Three stories of an antiquated inn, family-owned and operated since the beginning of who cares when and currently run by this infuriating woman who hired me but won’t listen to a single suggestion.
“Call maintenance,” I demand.
I’m on my third day here, and I’ve spent the first two wandering the building and grounds. My notes are copious. The antiquity of this inn is beyond belief. I’m used to sleek and shiny. Flashy and bold. Clean white lines and gleaming chrome accents. Contemporary, comfortable, and full of amenities. This place is everything opposite. The windows don’t allow much light as the height of the trees original to the forested bluff shadow the building. The interior also includes dark hardwood floors and dark trim and just dark, dark, dark . . .
“We might have a problem with that,” the feisty spitfire before me mutters, hinting there is more trouble ahead.
“What now?” I’d found fault in drafty windows and leaky faucets. The kitchen needs a major overhaul despite Tessa’s admission the space is rarely used. This respite no longer houses a formal restaurant. The original ballroom, once allotted for weddings and parties, hasn’t held dancers or diners in years.
Tessa lifts her phone. “I’m maintenance.”
“Fuck. You’re kidding me, right?” Please be joking.
When I came upon this woman three days ago, she was casually eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich sans the jelly, which was an argument in and of itself. Just call it a damn peanut butter sandwich! So there she sat, casual as a summer day, thinking I was checking in. Her hair was in a messy bun on top of her head. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on her pert nose. Papers were spread everywhere on the check-in desk.
“Check-in isn’t until three,” she’d told me.
“I’m here for the interview.”
Her head tilted like she hadn’t a clue what I was talking about.
I’d stuck out a hand and introduced myself while offering her my best smile. The one that typically calmed ornery personalities and didn’t do too bad at making ladies drop their undies.
She didn’t offer a hand in return. Instead, she stared at me with wide blue eyes the color of that damn lake and a rosy, lush mouth agape with a smudge of peanut butter on the corner. When my eyes landed there, her tongue swiped it clean, and instantly, I was hard.
“I’m here to see Tessa Brogan.”
She’d blinked. Blinked again. She brushed her hands together and slowly stood from the stool she’d been sitting on. Then she laid into me with a string of I told him we didn’t need anyone and Why can’t he just let me do this for myself? and I can’t believe this bullshit.
She didn’t ask me any questions.
Regardless, I handed her a résumé before admitting out loud my decision to pursue the manager position might have been a huge mistake. I needed this job, and from the looks of the lobby, she needed me.
One glance at the paper before her, and she slid the trash bin forward with her foot before slipping the résumé into the garbage.
“Filing system.” She smirked. Then her shoulders fell. “Guess it doesn’t matter what I want. The position includes a room. The salary isn’t anywhere near what you might have made before. Take it or leave it.”
I took it, minus the room, and she has made me regret every second so far.
Present conundrum included.
At first, we’d stood face-to-face, breaths blending, bodies plastered together in this tight space.
Then she sat with a hard thump on the closed toilet seat.
The position wasn’t any better as her eyes were level with my junk, and my body was not under control with her proximity.
She stood again and forced us to rotate, so now I am seated on the closed toilet seat, and her sweet spot is at my eye level. My legs are bent, knees practically touching the wall opposite where I sit, and Tessa is standing between my spread thighs.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she mumbles, crossing her arms. “I don’t want you here.”
“Well, perhaps you should have tightened the doorknobs.” Along with a mighty list of other things needing repair at this place.