Page 62 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

“It’s a deal.” I reach for my walkie-talkie. “I’ll ask the groundskeeping crew to drag the kayaks down to the lake, and meet you out there as soon as I finish up a few emails.”

“Take your time,” she says, hopping up from her desk. “But I can totally move the kayaks myself.”

“Ah.” My lip quirks. “So you’re a tough girl, huh?”

She comes toward me, lifting her arms in a teasing flex. “I guess you haven’t noticed my massive biceps yet.”

“Wow.” I start a slow clap, and she takes a bow. “After we’re done with the kayaks, I’ll pay you to show me your workout regimen.”

A crooked grin spreads across her face. “Oh, you can’t handle my workout, bossman.”

“Challenge accepted, hotshot.” I stick a hand out, and when she shakes it, a bolt of lightning shoots straight up my arm. Such a big reaction to her small palm.

“You’re going to regret this,” she jokes.

Yeah, I probably will.

While she heads out on her kayak mission, I take a moment to double-check the agenda for my employee meeting at the pub. I recognize the names of a few of the bartenders and servers who worked with me two years ago, but the kitchen staff is almost entirely new.

The chef and I will have our work cut out for us training them.

So I shoot the chef a copy of the agenda, then I set a timer so I won’t get too caught up with Olivia that I end up late for our meeting.

Another meeting.

The truth is, I’ve been missing simple tasks like washing out kayaks ever since I became manager. When I worked here before, I got to bartend at the pub, serve food and drinks on the beach, and handle guest check-ins at the registration desk. Any small thing that needed doing, the Johnsons would hit me up. I felt like I knew the place inside and out, and had my hands on all corners of the property.

These days, I’m stuck in the office poring over spreadsheets, dealing with third-party booking sites, and coordinating meetings. Instead of interacting with people, I crunch numbers and worry about budgets. Then there’s all the stuff Olivia’s been teaching me.

I still feel a little overwhelmed by the marketing and promotional end of the business—and I’m concerned I might’ve bitten off more than I can chew—but I’m not cutting and running this time. I made a commitment to the Johnsons. And I promised myself I’ll do whatever it takes to make The Beachfront a success. That means staying when the going gets tough.

When Olivia leaves.

Speaking of which—or who—I raise her on the walkie-talkie.

“Hey, hotshot. I’m ready to meet you now. Are you at the beach?”

“Roger that, bossman. I’m still at the boathouse.”

“Be there soon.”

As I head across the property, there’s a spring in my step, and my pulse picks up in anticipation of spending the afternoon with Olivia. Passing the left wing of the inn, I approach the boathouse, ambling around the corner.

And that’s when I get hit full-on in the face, neck, and chest with a blast of freezing cold hose water.

What the?—

Olivia’s manning the boathouse hose like she’s a firefighter, and I’m the five-alarm blaze.

“Ha ha!” she crows over my sputtering. “I told you you couldn’t handle me, bossman!”

When I raise my hands in mock surrender, she flips a handle on the nozzle shutting off the water midstream. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Oooh.” I swipe both hands down my soaking wet face, shooting droplets off my fingers and flinging them toward Olivia. Then I meet her twinkling gaze. “You asked for it, hotshot.” I grin. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Oh, yeah?” She arches a brow, dropping the hose on the grass. “What are you gonna do about it?”

I kick off my flip flops and set down my walkie-talkie. “That sounds like a dare.”

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