Page 9 of Homecoming Heartbreaker

“My old house—the manager’s house—is vacant at the moment.”

He heard, from Jameson, that the three-bedroomed staff house had been converted into a self-catering villa years ago. Mack suspected that it hadn’t, like so many other of the resort’s rooms and free-standing cottages on the edge of the lake, seen many guests lately.

“Why don’t you live in that house, like the hotel managers usually do?”

“It’s far too big for me,” Molly replied. “I asked Jameson if I could convert the rooms above the stables into an apartment and he agreed. I live there.”

The stables were a stone’s throw from her old house, the only two buildings on the west side of the property. The enormous parking area and a large swath of woods separated the two buildings from the other staff cottages.

The house, he recalled from visiting on those early playdates with Molly, had a wide veranda and great views of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Yeah, he’d be comfortable there.

“Your old house will work for me. I’ll get the key from the front desk.”

“Don’t bother.” Molly walked back over to her desk, her stride long and sexy, and bent over slightly to open another desk drawer. She pulled out a key and tossed it at his head. Mack, knowing she couldn’t hit a barn door from two feet with a BB gun, lifted his left hand and snatched the key out of the air. He had excellent reflexes, but Molly’s throws had never been much of a challenge.

That, at least, hadn’t changed.

Molly rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. “If there’s nothing else, will you excuse me? I’m hours behind and it’s not even ten yet.”

Mack nodded and slowly stood up. Unable to help himself, he walked over to where Molly stood and gently, so very gently, pushed a crazy curl behind one ear. His fingertip brushed her cheek and her skin was still baby soft but her scent was sexy, a little wicked.

“Itisgood to see you, Mol.”

Molly, because she was Molly, slapped his hand away and stood back. “Too little, too late, Mack. Now go. I have work to do.”

Mack lifted his hands and backed away, resisting the urge to haul her into his arms and kiss her until her knees buckled and sexy little groans emerged from deep in her throat. He still, dammit to hell and back, wanted her.

Not going to happen, Holloway, so get that thought out of your stubborn brain.

Focus on what you can control.And that was work. Talking of...

“Please schedule a meeting with senior management at two this afternoon. I want a SWOT analysis—strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats—”

“I have a post-grad degree in business, Holloway. I know what a SWOT analysis is, for goodness’ sake!” Molly told him, looking offended.

Right. He remembered hearing she’d gotten her master’s in business administration sometime back. If he didn’t think she’d bite his head off, he’d congratulate her on that achievement.

“I want them to do one for their department, one for the organization as a whole, then you and I will take those, see what we’re missing and work out a plan of action,” Mack told her.

Molly nodded at the file on her desk. “I have already done all that.”

“Bring copies of your documentation to the meeting, but I want their perspective, too,” Mack stated.

Molly stared at him like he was losing his mind. “They can’t get that done in—” she checked her watch, a cheap knockoff of a well-known brand “—five hours.”

“I’m not looking for a perfectly printed glossy brochure, Molly,” he replied, looking down at her bright and detailed folder. “I just need a list, a starting point.”

“Still...”

“Two o’clock, in the conference room. I presume it’s unoccupied.”

“You presume right,” Molly said, her tone sarcastic once again. “We haven’t had a conference here for quite a while.”

Why not? It didn’t make any sense.

Mack placed his hand on the door and pulled it open. Looking over his shoulder, he frowned at her. “I hope you aren’t going to let the past color our working relationship, Molly.”

He saw the anger flash in those extraordinary eyes, the flush that tinged her cheeks pink. Man, she was beautiful...

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