Page 5 of The VIP Package

Then I punch myself in the dick—mentally, of course—because this woman’s not staying here. Goddammit.

I thrust back the paperwork like she’s used it to blow her nose. She stares at my outstretched hand, refusing to take it.

The hell with her.

“While this is all very interesting,” I begin, setting her forms on top of a tankless water heater, “I can promise you that you do not have a reservation. Not for this specific Holyfield Properties resort on the dates you indicate.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“BecauseI’mAshton Holyfield.” I watch for the wide-eyed jolt of surprise. For the awe that always accompanies this announcement. The news that I’m one of the world’s wealthiest men.

“How fortunate for youAshton Holyfield,” snaps the redhead. “Did kids at school call you Ash Hole?”

I blink. “Surely you can’t be serious.”

“I am serious.” One edge of her mouth ticks up. “And don’t call me Shirley.”

“Airplane.” I wasn’t expecting a movie quote, so I’m more than a little thrown off.

And she clearly wasn’t expecting me to know it. Her hazel eyes blink in surprise. “You’ve watchedAirplane?”

“Everyone’swatched that film. It’s a cultural staple.” We’re getting off track here. “Madam, I regret to inform you there is no possible way we’re equipped to handle your nonexistent reservation this week at Crystal Bliss Retreat. The resort is closed for the holiday.”

This time, she flinches. “What holiday?”

“World Baking Day.”

Her eyes drag my body, slowly. “And why are you not off sliding your baguette in an oven?”

I decide to overlook her salacious suggestion, though not all of me wants to ignore it. My dick’s paying attention.

But that’s an organ I’ve learned to disregard, so I retort. “I’ve given my staff a full week’s vacation to recoup, regenerate, and relax. Fully paid, of course.”

“I see.” She’s looking a little less sassy. “So why are you here?”

“I’m using the downtime to switch over the boilers to solar.” Because yes, I care about the environment. “The repairman will be here at three-thirty.” It’s barely after two, but I believe in being prepared.

The redhead stares with a little less fire in her eyes. The hand gripping her bag turns white at the knuckles and I can see she’s fighting to quash what she’s feeling.

I’m familiar with the look.

“Fuck.” She squeezes her eyes shut, jaw clenching tightly. “It fucking figures, doesn’t it? My fucking fiancé forgets to show up for his own fucking wedding, so why the fuck would I expect this fucking disaster of a day to start going my way the instant I get on a fucking plane and fly all fucking night wedged between a guy eating a tuna wrap and some fucking stockbroker who hit me up for free fucking therapy.” She doesn’t even take a breath between sentences. “I fucking counsel patientsconstantlynot to seek a geographical cure for a fucking internalized problem, and what do I fucking do? The same exact fucking thing I know will createmoreproblems.”

I stare at her face. At the bright spots of color high on her cheekbones. I’d never say this out loud, but she’s beautiful when she’s angry.

And I know what it’s like to have a bad day. A bad life, to be honest.

But I’m still not taking her in. “Rather impressive,” I manage, “the quantity of fucks you managed to fit into one mouthful.”

“Wonderful.” She doesn’t unclench her jaw. “Because they’re clearly the only fucks I’ll be getting this weekend.”

“And the only mouthful?”

I expect her to slap me. I probably deserve it.

Instead, she steps forward. “You’re an asshole, aren’t you?”

“Most assuredly.” That’s an easy one.

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