away, busying herself with her suit jacket.
“We could discuss that ad campaign in more detail.” He dangled a carrot he knew she was powerless to resist. “Drawing in more guests over the next few months is crucial, you know, and with the crew arriving on Wednesday we need to have all our ducks in a row.”
Esme replaced the jacket over the chair back and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s barely noon, I’m certain we can find time to discuss your advertising campaign this afternoon. After all, our non-working-afternoon bargain doesn’t being until tomorrow.”
“Ahhh, but I have plans for the afternoon. Since we have no guests arriving, my surfboard is calling.” He picked up the mail from the desk, shuffled through the correspondence and handed the stack of envelopes to her. “I’ve done my duty. Now, I’ll leave you to pen notes back to our satisfied guests and pull a few quotes from happy customers. Work fast, the restoration crews arrive in one hour. Bring four or five quotes to dinner with you. I’ll pick you up at six.” With that, he left the office, Esme gaping in his wake. He popped his head back around the corner, watching closely as she breathed deeply.
Angry or frustrated? Both? The tick at her temple was more pronounced than ever. Definitely both. “Oh, Esmerelda, just so you know, a suit is not the proper attire for dinner in Puerto Vallarta.”
Esmerelda clenched her jaw and flexed her fists but before she could reply he stepped out of the office and hurried to his room on the second floor, grinning as he went.
*
There was nothing here. Esme stacked the last customer letter with the others and sighed. No useable quotes. Nothing spectacular. She wanted to smack her head against Constance’s desk, but that would only result in worsening the ache hammering at her temples. She didn’t have time for a headache.
The whine of a sander and movers reached her through the closed door and the noise of her radio. More of Santiago’s handiwork. He’d no sooner left the villa for parts unknown, AKA the four foot swells down the beach, than the workmen had arrived. Complete with a list of “renovations” and letter of approval signed by Santiago.
Only, darn it, this was her home they were messing with. Her dusky red walls, her mahogany floorboards, her comfortable furniture. Constance wasn’t here to assuage her fears. Santiago wasn’t here to fight with. She couldn’t even settle into her favorite chair and have a good wallow the way she needed because her favorite chair—along with the sofas, end tables, and shelving units—were gone. A sharp odor reached her nostrils and Esme flinched. Turpentine?
In a flash she was away from the desk and hurtling through the office. She skidded to a stop at the front desk and her eyes bugged. He was actually doing it. Changing her lovely villa into a polished, one-size-fits-all Cruz resort. One man worked a sander over the gleaming floorboards while several others rolled a deep grey paint over the walls. No. He’d taken her furniture, he couldn’t take her walls, too.
Esme grabbed the key to Constance’s office and pocketed it. Then she hurried around the front desk to grab every loose paintbrush she could find. No one noticed her; it was as if she didn’t exist. She’d show them she did exist in about five minutes. Tossing the unused brushes into the office, she then stormed upstairs to her old bedroom, pulled off her pencil skirt and shell, and grabbed one of Santiago’s dress shirts from the closet. It hung nearly to her knees and the sleeves dragged so she rolled them up, then cinched the shirt with one of his ties.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped cold. She looked like a seven-year-old raiding her father’s closet. Stop it, Esmerelda. Get out of his clothes and keep things businesslike and you’ll be fine. Esme tossed the shirt and tie on his bed, put her own clothes back on, and then pulled his shirt over
“We could discuss that ad campaign in more detail.” He dangled a carrot he knew she was powerless to resist. “Drawing in more guests over the next few months is crucial, you know, and with the crew arriving on Wednesday we need to have all our ducks in a row.”
Esme replaced the jacket over the chair back and crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s barely noon, I’m certain we can find time to discuss your advertising campaign this afternoon. After all, our non-working-afternoon bargain doesn’t being until tomorrow.”
“Ahhh, but I have plans for the afternoon. Since we have no guests arriving, my surfboard is calling.” He picked up the mail from the desk, shuffled through the correspondence and handed the stack of envelopes to her. “I’ve done my duty. Now, I’ll leave you to pen notes back to our satisfied guests and pull a few quotes from happy customers. Work fast, the restoration crews arrive in one hour. Bring four or five quotes to dinner with you. I’ll pick you up at six.” With that, he left the office, Esme gaping in his wake. He popped his head back around the corner, watching closely as she breathed deeply.
Angry or frustrated? Both? The tick at her temple was more pronounced than ever. Definitely both. “Oh, Esmerelda, just so you know, a suit is not the proper attire for dinner in Puerto Vallarta.”
Esmerelda clenched her jaw and flexed her fists but before she could reply he stepped out of the office and hurried to his room on the second floor, grinning as he went.
*
There was nothing here. Esme stacked the last customer letter with the others and sighed. No useable quotes. Nothing spectacular. She wanted to smack her head against Constance’s desk, but that would only result in worsening the ache hammering at her temples. She didn’t have time for a headache.
The whine of a sander and movers reached her through the closed door and the noise of her radio. More of Santiago’s handiwork. He’d no sooner left the villa for parts unknown, AKA the four foot swells down the beach, than the workmen had arrived. Complete with a list of “renovations” and letter of approval signed by Santiago.
Only, darn it, this was her home they were messing with. Her dusky red walls, her mahogany floorboards, her comfortable furniture. Constance wasn’t here to assuage her fears. Santiago wasn’t here to fight with. She couldn’t even settle into her favorite chair and have a good wallow the way she needed because her favorite chair—along with the sofas, end tables, and shelving units—were gone. A sharp odor reached her nostrils and Esme flinched. Turpentine?
In a flash she was away from the desk and hurtling through the office. She skidded to a stop at the front desk and her eyes bugged. He was actually doing it. Changing her lovely villa into a polished, one-size-fits-all Cruz resort. One man worked a sander over the gleaming floorboards while several others rolled a deep grey paint over the walls. No. He’d taken her furniture, he couldn’t take her walls, too.
Esme grabbed the key to Constance’s office and pocketed it. Then she hurried around the front desk to grab every loose paintbrush she could find. No one noticed her; it was as if she didn’t exist. She’d show them she did exist in about five minutes. Tossing the unused brushes into the office, she then stormed upstairs to her old bedroom, pulled off her pencil skirt and shell, and grabbed one of Santiago’s dress shirts from the closet. It hung nearly to her knees and the sleeves dragged so she rolled them up, then cinched the shirt with one of his ties.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror and stopped cold. She looked like a seven-year-old raiding her father’s closet. Stop it, Esmerelda. Get out of his clothes and keep things businesslike and you’ll be fine. Esme tossed the shirt and tie on his bed, put her own clothes back on, and then pulled his shirt over
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