Tailored for Trouble (Happy Pants #1) - Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Page 0,84
taken care of by Mr. Wade.
Taylor’s heart fluttered like crazy the moment the man said Bennett’s name. She didn’t know what she’d say when she saw him. Hi, ready to have your mind completely blown with some very mediocre sex?
“Good evening, ma’am. How was your flight in from Paris?” said the young woman behind the reception counter. Her dark hair was pulled into a neat bun and she wore a cream-colored linen tunic.
“You know who I am?” Taylor asked.
“Yes, ma’am. The owner left very specific instructions.” She raised her hand into the air and a young man wearing a khaki linen uniform appeared.
Owner? “Do you mean…Bennett Wade owns this hotel?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said demurely.
Okay, yet another surprise. So this had to be his project. He was expanding his company into hotels and resorts in addition to the fragrances business. She supposed that was nice, but was it really worth killing himself over?
The attentive bellhop was standing next to her, looking confused.
“I don’t have any luggage. It’s somewhere in Paris,” Taylor said, feeling a little embarrassed to be checking in to such an extravagant resort in the kind of clothes one might wear for a midnight run to 7-Eleven for a pint of ice cream or a bag of Cheetos.
It was also eighty-something degrees, and she was wearing sweatpants.
“He will take you to your suite,” said the clerk. “What is your size, ma’am?”
“Size?” Taylor asked.
“Yes, of your clothing? We will have a selection of garments and sandals sent to your room.”
“Oh. That’s not necessary,” Taylor said. “I’ll hit the gift shop in the morning.” The one in the lobby behind her was obviously closed.
“Mr. Wade made it clear to see you were taken care of. It is no problem, ma’am.”
Taylor wrestled with her conscience for a moment, but she really could use something clean to sleep in. “I’m a size eight. Or ten. Depending on the day. And don’t worry, my flip-flops are fine.” Taylor had on the horrible pink pair she’d also had stashed in her laptop case as part of her emergency comfort outfit.
The woman raised her brow. “We will have the items sent to you within the hour, ma’am.” She looked at the patiently waiting bellhop. “Please take Ms. Reed to the presidential suite.”
“Presidential suite? Are you sure?”
“That is where Mr. Wade always stays, though it’s not often we see him.”
“Is Bennett—I mean—is Mr. Wade staying, too?”
“Yes. Mr. Wade said he’d be here shortly to join you for the evening.”
Okay. We’re going to share a room. This is happening. Really happening. And I haven’t shaved anything. Ohmygod. I am a mess.
“Um, are there bathroom supplies in the room?” Taylor asked.
“Yes, Mr. Wade asked for everything to be fully stocked.”
Oh, thank God. My underarms look like Teenage Ninja Tarantulas. Very hairy and mysterious. Taylor followed the bellhop outside where he popped open a jumbo-sized umbrella. Through the drizzle, they made their way past several lush gardens and a multitude of individual bungalows to a private gate. It was the middle of the night, so she couldn’t see much, but the place looked like a beach paradise.
The man unlocked the gate, and they entered a dramatically lit garden leading to what looked like a private residence. Two stories. Dark wooden construction. Elegant yet rustic.
They entered, and Taylor’s jaw nearly dropped. It was absolute heaven, furnished like a five-star hotel room with beautiful teak wood furniture and bright white upholstery, bamboo ceiling fans, a wet bar, flat screen TV, sprawling living room, and floor-to-ceiling shutter-style doors on half of the exterior wall. She guessed the living room opened up to an insanely gorgeous view of the beach.
The bellhop showed her upstairs—another living room slash bedroom with a king-size bed surrounded by gauzy white mosquito netting, blonde bamboo flooring, and a big balcony. She couldn’t wait for the sun to come up so she could see it all properly. It was amazing.
The moment the guy left, she sprinted into the bathroom and went through the supplies. “Yes!” She had never been so happy to see a razor in her life. Sadly, however, the toilet didn’t sing or talk or play music.
She started the shower and jumped inside, quickly washing her hair before getting to work on the kitty, taking care not to get too crazy with the bikini line. She didn’t know what Bennett was into—bald eagle, landing strip, sasquatch?—but shaving was not waxing and what man wanted to get a friction burn from vag stubble? Not good. She went with manicured