Page 29 of The Rogue and His Flower

Too tired to engage further, I turn on my heel and make my way back towards my bedroom. When I enter, the bed sheets have been turned down, and the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminates the room as I remove my clothes and slip under the covers.

Despite my exhaustion, sleep eludes me and I toss and turn, my mind replaying the tense exchange with Dalton. Minutes stretch into hours before I hear the creak of the bedroom dooropening. Pressing my eyes shut, I feign sleep, instantly aware of Dalton’s presence, his familiar cologne giving him away. Keeping my breathing even, I remain still with my eyes pressed shut, hoping that’s enough to convince him that I’m deep asleep.

“I promised Drix I’d take care of you, and I’m already fucking it up,” he whispers, his tone laced with remorse as he sits down on the edge of the bed.

The vulnerability in his voice tugs at something deep within me, stirring up a conflict of emotions. I almost open my eyes, but when he leans over and brushes a strand of hair off my face, his fingers lingering on my cheek, I keep them shut.

“Sleep well, Daisy,” he says, and a moment later he’s gone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

DALTON

“I’m terribly sorry, Sir, Madam. I’m happy to provide you with complimentary meals in our restaurant for the remainder of your stay,” Daisy says to the couple standing before her at the reception desk at the hotel a few days later.

My footsteps still, hidden by the large marble pillar that brackets either side of the reception area. I listen in on the conversation taking place between Daisy and the disgruntled couple glaring at her.

“That’s not good enough, my husband and I expect our suite to be spotless, and our dry cleaning to be delivered in a timely manner. This is supposed to be a five-star hotel. Quite frankly, what you’re offering as compensation is ludicrous,” the snobbish woman replies, her nose lifting in the air as though she’s smelt something she doesn’t like.

“There was aslightmisunderstanding with regards to when you’d need your dry cleaning returned, so I took the liberty of delivering it personally to the laundry team,” Daisy replies. “It will be ready within the hour and returned to your room in good time for this evening’s event. I have also inspected your suite myself, and I’m happy to say that it is spotless. As for your disappointment, I’m offering you complimentary meals, toinclude alcohol, for the remainder of your stay,” Daisy persists, her smile widening as she tries to hide the glint of annoyance in her eyes.

“Regardless, we are regular patrons of this hotel and as I’ve already explained, we areverygood friends with the hotel owner, Carl Gunn. I’m sure he would be disgusted at the lack of customer service provided, as well as the very apparent disregard of our complaint,” the woman’s husband says, a man who I do not recognise, and given his apparent friendship with my father, I probably should. Either he’s lying, or he is a newly acquiredfriendthat I haven’t yet had the displeasure to meet.

Daisy turns her attention to the man. “I’m sorry youstillfeel disappointed with the service you’ve received despite myself and my team members ensuring that your complaints have been listened to and any issues you have raised, rectified.”

“Are you suggesting that we’re being difficult?” the woman asks.

“Not at all,” Daisy replies, her voice saccharine.

I know her well enough to know she’s losing her patience fast, and as she opens her mouth to continue, I step out from behind the pillar and stride towards them.

“What seems to be the problem?” I ask.

“And who might you be?” the woman replies, her lips pursed as I approach.

“I am the manager of the hotel, DaltonGunn,” I explain, as Daisy mutters something indistinguishable under her breath. “Though given you know my father so well, I’d assume you’d already know that.”

The couple’s attitude instantly changes upon hearing my name, and dare I say it, the man looks more than a little uncomfortable, telling me that he does not in fact know my father at all.

“Mr Gunn, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” the man says, holding his hand out to shake.

I take it, making sure to squeeze his hand tight. “And your name?” I ask, releasing him.

“Geoffrey Sinclair. This is my wife Octavia.”

“Geoffrey and Octavia Sinclair?” I question, pausing for a moment as I pretend to recollect their names. “And did I hear you correctly when you said that you’re bothverygood friends with my father?”

“I—” Geoffrey begins, but I cut him off.

“Which is interesting because I don’t think I have ever heard him mention either of you.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Daisy smother a smile, her eyes widening at my very obvious ploy to catch them in their lie. There’s nothing more that I hate than someone name dropping to gain special treatment.

Geoffrey clears his throat uncomfortably, exchanging a quick glance with his wife before plastering a fake smile back on his face. “My wife and I attend the same golf club as your father, have done so now for years,” he stammers, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Golf club? My father hasn’t played golf for at least ten years, he’s been too busy building a billion pound empire,” I counter, folding my arms across my chest and arching a brow. “Interesting then how close you are with him,” I add.

“It must’ve slipped his mind mentioning us, but we do appreciate all your efforts to make things right, Mr Gunn,” Octavia interjects smoothly whilst her husband turns a deep shade of red.

---