Just Sign Here - Cara Dee Page 0,3

hotel manager, presumably in Seattle. 33 years old.

Two

I was down to my last forty-eight hours in Seattle when I learned about Peyton’s workplace. And he wasn’t the manager. He was the front office manager. The radio show host must’ve gotten it wrong, but either way, it made it easier for me to approach Peyton if he was actually at the hotel as opposed to being holed up in an office somewhere.

Ironically, he worked at a hotel we’d once made a bid for. In the end, Hilton had offered more money and given it a much-needed makeover, and I entered the lavish lobby a little past noon.

I wouldn’t have chosen gold and blue for the theme, not with those marble pillars there, but it wasn’t my hotel. In my opinion, you could choose marble or gold, never both. Classy and elegant could quickly take a turn for gaudy.

Four men and women staffed the long check-in counter, and I cocked my head at a fifth who appeared from an office in the back. His suit was tailored to fit his body; it was more than just a uniform. He smiled crookedly at something one of the women said, then nodded and proceeded to touch base with the others.

It had to be Peyton, in which case… Fucking hell, he was a beautiful young man. Striking, truly. Green eyes, hair darker than my own, but untidier, a lovely swimmer’s body… I wondered what he’d look like on his knees, peering up at me with those gorgeous eyes and my come staining his lips.

I cleared my throat and curbed the image. Those urges had no place in my life anymore.

I did hope he was single, though. Working for me would take him away from Seattle for long periods of time, and a wife or girlfriend could easily get in the way of any amount of money I offered him.

Even his posture was perfect. He smiled politely as I approached, and he kept his hands clasped behind his back.

“Welcome to the International, sir,” the young woman next to Peyton greeted. “Do you have an early check-in?”

I slid her a quick, courteous smile before returning my attention to Peyton. “I believe it’s you I’m looking for. Are you Peyton Scott?”

His brows lifted a fraction, curiosity evident in his expression. “I am. How may I assist you?”

Don’t ask that question.

“It’s a private matter,” I replied.

“Ah.” He gestured toward the nearest seating area. “I will be right with you, sir. May I offer you coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, thank you.” On the way over to a set of plush couches, I adjusted my tie and cuff links, ready to use my charm if I had to. One way or another, I wanted to recruit him. Perhaps he would make a terrific assistant, given his job here. But first and foremost, I wanted to see how he would interact with my daughter.

He joined me shortly after and took a seat across from me after setting a cup of coffee on the table for me.

The problem with hotel lobbies—they were too big for private conversations, and the furniture was positioned too far apart.

“I heard you on the radio the other day.” I leaned forward and took a sip of the coffee. Too bland. “Not your history show,” I clarified. “You spoke about parenting.”

“Oh.” He shifted in his seat, unsure of where I was going with this. Perhaps wondering how I’d found him. “Was there a problem, sir?”

“On the contrary,” I said. “I work in the hotel business myself, and I wanted to discuss the possibility of recruiting you.”

His forehead creased, and he tilted his head. “Based on a radio show about parenthood?”

I flashed him a smile. “I have a daughter and could relate to everything you said. It made me want to meet with you. What your position would be with me depends on you. I need a personal assistant, and I need help with my daughter.” I cleared my throat and gave him the shortest explanation possible. “Right now, I have a nanny who travels with me. It’s a temporary solution. However, if I were to find an assistant with as great parenting skills as you seem to have, one who could develop a good relationship with the nanny too—”

“I apologize for interrupting, sir, but I fear you might’ve made a mistake,” he said uncertainly. “I’m not what most would qualify as a good parent, and I know for certain that I won’t be invited back to that show. Sharon was