Page 9 of Some Like It Hott

“Oh, hi, Natalie. Come in.”

I can tell right away that something’s off. She doesn’t sound as brimming with enthusiasm as she did when she called to let me know I had the job or when we talked about my lodging. But I tell myself it’s nothing to do with me—probably a bridezilla situation from earlier in the morning—and step inside.

“Good to see you.” She waves me into a chair across from her. “How’d move-in go?”

Most of the furniture in the apartment Lloyd and I shared belonged to him. I was able to drive all my possessions the half hour from Bend to Rush Creek in my battered Honda Fit.

“Easy-peasy. I love the room. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you helping me out with housing,” I tell her. “There used to be lots of people I could crash with around here, but everyone I know has moved to Seattle or Portland or Boise. And my sister and her husband live in a tiny house. Literally—one-hundred-twenty square feet. They’re all in on limiting environmental impact, but long-term guests—not so much.”

Hanna shakes her head. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t love any of my siblings enough for that.”

“My parents are still in Bend, but…” I wrinkle my nose.

She smiles at me. “But I take it they’re not first on your list of roommates?”

“Exactly.”

Hanna’s petite and curvy, with round pink cheeks and very light skin. The combo of that and her dark hair gives her a kind of voluptuous-Snow-White-with-a-pixie-cut look that makes me want to chop off my own wild, curly hair. She’s no-nonsense to the point of bluntness most of the time, which works for me. Plus, she’s gone out of her way to help me, and we totally clicked in our interview.

“I’ll have some paperwork for you to fill out, but first I wanted to have a word with you.”

She rearranges a stack of papers, and I realize she’s nervous. Which means the “something off” I observed when I first walked in? Probablydoeshave to do with me.

Shit.“Everything okay?”

Should I not have asked for housing? Was it too much?

I don’t know what I’ll do if this job falls through. Things are over with Lloyd, and it’s a huge understatement to say my parents aren’t my first choice of roommates. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that the idea of asking them for any kind of favor makes me feel like throwing up. Which is why I have to save the money to go back to school.

And even if my housing situation weren’t at stake, I want this job. Yeah, it’s not on the long-term Get Serious path, but it’s totally up my alley. I love people and I love, well,fun—and this is a job where I get to make sure people have fun. Nothing else I’ve applied for sounds like something I want to do.

“I havesomany great ideas for how to make Hott Springs Eternal a true destination!” I blurt out, sounding like a bad cover letter—as if that’s going to keep her from delivering whatever bad news is on the tip of her tongue.

She winces, and…I do, too. She looks away, andshit.Shit shit shit.

“It’s complicated,” she says, still not making eye contact. “Nothing to panic about, but there’s a—twist.”

“A twist,” I repeat. That doesn’t sound good.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard anything about my grandfather—Fox Hott’s—will… It’s a legend in Rush Creek at this point.”

I shake my head. “No, sorry.”

She shakes her head, too. “It’s fine, no worries. It’s—okay, here’s the thing. And God, Natalie, I’m really sorry about this bait and switch, but my hands are totally tied. I know I hired you to be the sole person in this position, but, well…God, how do I explain this?”

She’s not making any sense, and apparently my face betrays my confusion and worry because she says, “Wait, let me start from the beginning.”

But just then, her eyes leave my face and fix on something behind me. “Oh, hey,” she says.

I turn to see a man standing in the office door, towing a rolling suitcase behind him. He’s tall and broad-chested, wearing a gorgeous gray linen suit whose expensive tailoring flaunts the strength in his shoulders and biceps. His brown-and-burgundy power tie is cinched up tight against his strong, tanned throat. A half day of dark stubble coats his iron jaw, his cheekbones are carved from stone, and he’s scowling like he just found out his bespoke-suit maker has gone out of business.

My mouth goes dry, and my thighs get hot.

I may have read a little too much “You likedFifty Shades? Try this!” romance at a formative age.

My eyes go to his hands.

No ring.

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