Amadeo

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The woman seems to cower as she enters my office. It throws me off, since in all of our previous communications, she’d been nothing but grateful for my time, confident and sweet. I’d actually looked forward to our conversations before her ulterior motive came to light.

 

Zoë had come across as energetic, genuinely curious about me, my resorts, and life in general. One of those people that seemed to want to experience everything life had to offer. And she was humble despite her thriving social media presence. 

 

I hadn’t been interested in much the last few years, other than my business of course, but she’d been changing that as we’d started discussing a plethora of topics beyond work, topics that awoke excitement in me. We’d often discuss food, travel, science and history, and sometimes for over an hour at a time. Although we hadn’t gotten too personal, I was starting to like her as more than a business acquaintance.

 

And that was a fucking miracle.

 

Ah, and then that shitty email with not-so-subtle threatening undertones, showed me she was just like all the rest.

 

She had the fucking nerve to demand I not only find rooms in my fully booked resort to accommodate her sister, her sister’s fiancé, great-grandmother, and several other people, but also she’d expected the use of my wedding venue and coordinator. All with less than three weeks notice and she wanted it fully comped.

 

Or else the plans we’d been working on for the last four months might fall through.

 

“Have a seat, Ms. Wayz.” My words are clear but they must carry a growl of annoyance, at least that’s what I see in her expression.

 

The wedding event, and her social media coverage of it, will no doubt benefit the resort, but I don’t like the way she does business. Weirdly, if she’d asked me nicely to try to accommodate her needs, I would have done it.

 

We’d been renovating a wing of the hotel so both a block of rooms and a small venue hall weren’t booked. I would have simply moved up the remodelling plans for her. And that’s what I ended up doing regardless, but I’d done it begrudgingly.

 

I’d been excited about working with her—as excited as a grumpy asshole like me can get anyway. But no, she chose to be a demanding diva like every other fucking woman I know who isn’t an employee.

 

“Please call me Zoë. I’m so excited to finally meet you in person. I feel like I already know you.”

 

I grunt in reply as she starts unloading her luggage, plopping into the chair across from me. I fold my hands, teepeeing them, wondering why the hell her luggage is all over my office.

 

“Should I have someone come get all this?” My lip curls at the haphazard pile and she starts apologizing. I hate fucking clutter. In fact, I hate anything that’s messy and that includes disheveled, albeit, adorable, influencers blackmailing me for their personal gain. 

 

So why the fuck am I sporting a semi right now? 

 

I hold up a hand and Zoë Wayz stops rambling, her face flushing pink. I grab my cell, dialing the front desk.

 

“Can someone please get Ms. Wayz’ luggage and have it brought to her room?”

 

My eyes shoot to the woman’s as soon as Milo, my front desk clerk, tells me she doesn’t have a room.

 

“What room are you in?” I ask, pulling the phone away from my mouth, further annoyed by the holdup. Maybe she uses a different name to remain anonymous.

 

Her shoulders slump and her eyes, which are a gorgeous mix of green, copper and blue, lower. “I don’t know.”

 

“What do you mean you don’t know?” I snap, ending the call abruptly. “You’re staying here, yes? That’s what we arranged months ago.” Heat climbs the back of my neck. Is my resort suddenly not good enough for her?

 

“Amadeo—” She swallows, seeming to notice my seething look. “Sir, I—”

 

I don’t correct her and insist she call me Amedeo like she normally would, because fuck that. I want to see her squirm. No one blackmails me. No one. Not even the ever-popular, quirky, and adorable Zoë Wayz. And they certainly don’t do it while staying at another resort.

 

“Sir.”

 

I ignored it the first time but that word ‘sir’ falling from her lips is affecting me. A particular part of me, anyway and it irritates me further. The way her eyes dip down in submission isn’t fucking helping either. Sweet, intelligent, confident, and submissive women, suddenly became my fucking kryptonite after our conversations turned regular.

 

“There’s been a mix-up,” she says, her eyes flicking up to mine, her confidence showing. It hits me again what a pretty hazel colour they are. And they’re framed by long, thick lashes that don’t look fake, but probably are. As I assess her tanned, freckled face and pink bowed lips, I don’t see a trace of makeup. Huh. Aren’t influencers all about makeup and contouring their faces to look nothing like they actually do?

 

“A mix-up?” My brow arcs and I huff a humourless laugh. “We don’t have mix-ups at The Pellegrino.” 

 

“Oh, no, it’s not your mix-up.” She glances at the pile of luggage before her eyes find mine again. “Do you mind maybe ignoring that and my room situation for a few minutes so we can chat?” She jabs a thumb over her shoulder at the pile and I press my lips.

 

Yes, I fucking mind. I mind so much, I’d like to take you across my knee and turn that ass of yours red.