Their last resort, p.1
Their Last Resort, page 1
OTHER TITLES BY R.S. GREY
Available Stand-Alone Titles
Anything You Can Do*
A Place in the Sun*
Arrogant Devil*
Behind His Lens
Blushing in the Big Leagues*
Chasing Spring
Coldhearted Boss*
Date Me Like You Mean It*
Doctor Dearest*
Enemies Abroad*
Forbidden French*
His Royal Highness*
Hotshot Doc*
King of the Court*
Love the One You Hate*
Make Me Bad*
My Professor
Not So Nice Guy*
Scoring Wilder*
The Beach (novella)
The Beau & the Belle*
The Fortunate Ones
The Foxe & the Hound*
The Trouble with Quarterbacks*
Three Strikes and You’re Mine*
To Have and To Hate*
With This Heart
Available Titles within a Series
Heart Series
The Duet*
The Design*
Allure Series
The Allure of Dean Harper*
The Allure of Julian Lefray*
Summer Games Series
The Summer Games: Out of Bounds
The Summer Games: Settling the Score*
*Romantic comedies
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2024 by R.S. Grey Books, LLC
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Montlake, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781662517631 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662517624 (digital)
Cover design by Hang Le
Cover photography by Regina Wamba of ReginaWamba.com
Cover image: © DOMSTOCK / Shutterstock
Contents
Chapter One PAIGE
Chapter Two PAIGE
Chapter Three COLE
Chapter Four PAIGE
Chapter Five PAIGE
Chapter Six COLE
Chapter Seven PAIGE
Chapter Eight PAIGE
Chapter Nine PAIGE
Chapter Ten PAIGE
Chapter Eleven PAIGE
Chapter Twelve PAIGE
Chapter Thirteen COLE
Chapter Fourteen PAIGE
Chapter Fifteen PAIGE
Chapter Sixteen PAIGE
Chapter Seventeen COLE
Chapter Eighteen PAIGE
Chapter Nineteen PAIGE
Chapter Twenty PAIGE
Chapter Twenty-One PAIGE
Chapter Twenty-Two PAIGE
Chapter Twenty-Three COLE
Chapter Twenty-Four COLE
Epilogue PAIGE
Excerpt: Not So Nice Guy
Chapter One SAMANTHA
About the Author
Chapter One
PAIGE
I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.
I just have to keep repeating the mantra.
There is a lot to like about working at this resort. Siesta Playa is known for its crystal clear water, white-sand beaches, luxury accommodations, and . . . grotesquely spoiled tourists, who all ascribe to the belief that their year’s worth of credit card points entitles them to nothing short of royal treatment.
I’m staring at one now while she rambles on and on about how I’m ruining her vacation and, naturally by extension, her life. She’s standing on the other side of the short desk, spitting venom. Her fury is so fierce, the little veins in her forehead look like they might burst. Her mood is in stark contrast to her bright Hawaiian dress and kitschy conch earrings. The glasses she’s sporting on her head carry a little slogan, one glittery word positioned over each eye: ISLAND TIME!
Now I see why her husband is cowering behind her on wobbly knees, searching for a spine that she has long since quashed.
Sir, blink three times if you need help.
“Mrs. Daugherty, I’m so very sorry.”
For the record, this is my fourth apology, but it gets ignored like the first three.
“You’re sorry? What am I supposed to do with a sorry? I flew all the way here from Miami, y’know.”
That’s about a two-hour trip, runway to runway. With the way she emphasizes this point, you’d think she’d just backpacked here from a Tibetan mountaintop.
“We’re so glad you came all this way, and I understand why you’re upset.”
No, we’re not—no, I don’t.
“I apologize again, on behalf of the entire resort team.”
Actually, we all collectively want to banish you from the premises.
“And, of course, we’re happy to offer you and your husband excursion vouchers—or would you two enjoy a private beach dinner instead? Courtesy of the resort, of course.”
Giving in like this—rolling over and taking it—is resort policy. Just give the high-maintenance sociopaths what they want in order to defuse the situation before the other guests (the ones whose parents loved them) notice. I hate it.
In quick succession, she pounds her pointer finger down on the desk like it’s a woodpecker made out of Vienna sausages. “I can eat dinner on the beach anywhere. I want to see some damn whales! Like I was promised!”
One of the excursions offered here at Siesta Playa is a guided marine-life tour where guests have the opportunity to see dolphins, reef sharks, sea turtles, and potentially whales. During the high season, from January through early April, humpback whales swim through the Turks Island Passage and give birth at Salt Cay. But seeing as how it’s mid-August . . . the whales are otherwise occupied elsewhere, doing whale things. A fact made abundantly clear to any of our guests who might have their sights set on seeing a majestic humpback this time of year, including Mrs. Daugherty.
“I. Want. Whales,” she demands again, enunciating each word like a grown-up version of Veruca Salt.
Her husband, temporarily abandoning his attempt to shrink into oblivion, speaks up with a wobbly voice. “Beatrice, I think if maybe we just—”
She makes no move to address him. Her focus stays pinned solely on me. “No, Mark. Don’t. This is ridiculous! You know what?” Her fingers are aimed at me, mere inches from my face, wagging back and forth. “I want to speak to your manager. Now.”
I knew this request was coming. This righteous appeal to mythical authority is the last gasp of all frustrated complainers. I’d bet anything that on her deathbed she’ll cry out for Jesus—not for comfort or mercy but because she’d like to complain to his dad about the poor service she got on earth.
I’m forced to radio for someone, except the person that shows up is the absolute last someone I want to see right now.
There’s no need for me to turn around to confirm my suspicions when he walks up behind me. He might as well be accompanied by a theme song filled with deep, ominous organs. Dun dun dunnnn.
He’s a regular in Mordor.
The devil’s dinner guest.
Voldemort’s pen pal.
Cole Clark is neither my manager nor my friend; he’s a thorn in my side. His mere presence spikes my blood with adrenaline. My hands form tiny fists at my sides.
“Hello. How can I help you?” he asks over my shoulder.
I straighten up, trying to add inches to my height. I hate his stupid bones and the fact they allow him to tower over me.
“Who are you?” She’s already losing some of the condescension in her tone. Women tend to do that around Cole. Soften, swoon, go a little weak in the knees. I’ve never understood why.
“I’m Cole Clark, the assistant director of operations at Siesta Playa.”
“Yes, he’s just the assistant director,” I stress. “You’ll want to compla—I mean, speak with Todd Weaver. He’s the real head honcho around here.”
Mrs. Daugherty doesn’t bother to listen to or look at me. She’s forgotten I exist. She’s staring up at Cole with love in her eyes now. Those bulging forehead veins have receded, draining their high-cholesterol contents back into the recesses of her now fluttering heart. If she could, she’d push her meek husband headlong into an active volcano. That’s how much she wants Cole. Blegh.
Realizing that my role here (in the daily theater play that is customer service) is done (thank god), I’m about to take a step to the side and make a speedy getaway, but then Cole’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, ensuring I stay put exactly where I am. His grip says, Not so fast. My heel stepping back onto the toe of his size-twelve oxfords replies, Let go of me, you jerk.
He does, immediately.
I have to stand there and listen to Mrs. Daugherty’s complaints all over again. She’s pointing at me. “This . . . this girl promised my husband and I that we would have an amazing time out on the water today, but I’m sad to report that just was not the case. Not in the least. This one right here—”
“Ms. Young,” Cole supplies for her.
“Ms. Young took us out onto the water all aftern
Throughout her wild diatribe about her “cousin, the travel agent,” the threats of a “scathing Tripadvisor review,” and even a confused rant about how her daughter has “quite the following on TickClock,” Cole keeps his cool.
Ten minutes later—and with a heaping pile of drink vouchers in hand—Mrs. Daugherty walks away, barking orders at her henpecked husband to hurry up. Her complaint with me is officially settled.
I should turn around and thank Cole, but if I’m honest, I would rather go sip mai tais with the Daughertys.
I wish he would disappear in a puff of smoke or a cloud of bats and leave me to it, but no, he can’t resist.
“To be honest I’m surprised the whales were her only complaint,” he starts, and already I’m bracing myself. “Knowing it was your excursion, I was expecting to see blood.”
I turn around, mockingly slow, and give him a withering look that says, You’re dust. Nothing.
Unfortunately, I know what he’s referring to about the blood. As a member of Siesta Playa’s entertainment and hospitality department, my job is to lead excursions and activities for adventure-loving guests. Interested in surfing, sailing, or hikes that culminate beneath majestic waterfalls? I’m your girl. And so what if, very occasionally (well, the actuaries at our insurance say it’s 11.7 percent of the time), my zany excursions result in mild to moderate injuries? Ships are safest in the harbor, but that’s not why ships are built! Dr. Missick—our resort’s resident doctor—absolutely hates me because I’ve turned his cushy retirement job into a full-time urgent care center. Rock climbing abrasions, bruises and bites courtesy of trendy but ill-tempered yoga goats, and a burn every now and then from the weekly hot-coal walk are only the start. However, I would just like to point out that there are just as many buffet-related injuries at this resort. Just last week there was a kebab impalement and a chocolate-fountain scalding. My point is Dr. Missick’s ever-growing patient load is not all my doing, which is why it infuriates me that Cole keeps a whiteboard in the break room titled “Days Since Last Guest Injury” as an easy way to needle me.
During Mrs. Daugherty’s rambling, Cole was probably running a fine-tooth comb over her, searching for a wrap or a sling. It feels wonderful that, this time at least, I’ve only inflicted emotional trauma to a guest and he doesn’t get the satisfaction of erasing the single-digit number from the whiteboard.
I cross my arms and tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze with all the confidence I can muster.
“Just to be clear, that wasn’t my fault.”
One of his dark brows arches playfully. “So I gathered.”
“I zoned out for most of that. Did you tell her you’d make the whales contract employees in order to hold them accountable for their truancy?”
The side of his mouth very nearly curls. “I told her to stick to the bar. I said your excursions could sometimes be more trouble than they’re worth.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to pick him apart.
I’m sure there are nice, happy adjectives to describe Cole, but I refuse to consider any of them. His height is annoying. His deep-brown eyes are too dark. His tie is entirely too neat. I’m sun kissed and blonde, and he’s a workaholic grump. Truly, would it kill him to let down his expertly styled hair every once in a while?
We’re on a tropical island, and this guy is in dress shoes. His entire closet consists of button-downs and blazers. For a casual night off, he casts aside his suits for a pair of “casual” dark jeans. His wardrobe is probably worth my yearly salary. If I ever saw him in a T-shirt, I’d die of shock.
“How are you so tan?” I asked him once. “You never step foot outside.”
He cast me a look chock full of mock suspicion. “Keeping close tabs on me?”
“I just know the lore. The second your skin comes in contact with the sun—” My hands mimicked an explosion. “Poof. Gone. It’s the same for all creatures from, well . . .” I clicked my tongue as my finger motioned toward the depths of hell.
He looked at me then with halfhearted annoyance, a common occurrence in our relationship, and replied, “My grandparents are from Sicily.”
“You have grandparents?!”
This was news to me. The theory that’s caught the most traction in the break room is that Cole only exists here because of a Meet Joe Black situation—i.e., Cole is Death, taking the form of a young man to experience life on earth. It explains the sharp-as-hell cheekbones and the fact that he can do math with inhuman speed and accuracy.
Now, here we stand, doing it again, pitting our wits against each other.
Thank god I don’t have to see Cole every day. My nerves couldn’t handle it. We work vastly different jobs here, after all. Most of the time, I’m out exploring the island with guests and he’s stuck indoors performing his number-crunching desk job. Word on the street is that he has his sights set on becoming the director of resort operations one day. It’s probably outlined meticulously in his five-year plan. It’s color coded and leather bound. He keeps it under his extrafirm pillow at night.
My five-year plan? Simple.
Enjoy life on the island.
That’s all.
Okay, not all. I would also like to experience love, and if that L-word proves too elusive, I will also happily accept lust. I even have the perfect target in mind. He’s Blaze, a new bartender in Siesta Playa’s beach lounge. I think he’s just the man I’ve been searching for—fun, easygoing, and outdoorsy. And I’m hoping beyond hope that he’s coming to the beach bonfire tonight so I have a chance to hang out with him. Our last few encounters haven’t exactly proved fruitful.
“Oh! You like smoothies too?” I asked when I walked past him in the main lobby the other day.
He frowned, completely confused.
I pointed to the smoothie in his hand, the one he was half finished with.
Still, he didn’t get it. “Oh, this? I had a coupon.”
I only planned for a discussion about blended fruit drinks, not coupons, so all my brain could come up with was “Cool, see ya.” Then I shot him some cringey double finger guns.
The next time I saw him, I was out at one of the local bars with some of my coworkers. I sidled up to him and asked over the loud music, “So, Blaze, where are you from?”
“The resort.”
I laughed and spoke up. “No, silly. Where did you come from?!”
“I came from the resort!” he shouted back.
So, okay, who cares if he’s not overflowing with brain cells . . . I have enough for the two of us, right? Plus, I’ve seen him without his shirt on, and those abs will surely get us through any hiccups that might arise from stilted conversations. But it doesn’t matter now. I’ll never get to that bonfire if I don’t finish up here with Cole.
“Are we done?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest so I don’t do something stupid like yank on his tie. I want to so bad.
Cole looks me up and down, no doubt finding my Teva sandals, workout shorts, and Siesta Playa tank top sorely lacking. If he had it his way, he’d force me into a pantsuit, add a little plaque over my breast pocket, and shellac my hair to my head in a tight bun. “Why are you in such a rush? Big plans?”
I shoot him a skeptical glare.
Does he know about the bonfire?
It’s hard to tell . . . I try yet fail to decipher his expression. He’s Fort Knox, this one. I don’t want to spill the beans and get anyone in trouble, but I also sometimes (very rarely) feel a little bad for Cole. As we lock eyes, I contemplate letting him in on the secret—something I’ll surely come to regret—but then he rolls his eyes.
“I already know about the bonfire.”
Suddenly, I’m on the defensive. “It’s not against the rules or anything. Théo isn’t setting it up on resort property.”
He frowns. “You act like you’re worried I’ll write you up.”
I’m not totally certain he wouldn’t . . .
I mean, he hasn’t before (that I know of), but Cole is very “by the book.” And I mean that literally—the book is actually kept in his desk drawer.
It’s why most people keep a healthy distance from him. They’re scared he’s going to run and tell Daddy on us if we step out of line. There’s more to it than just that, though. At Siesta Playa, there’s a clear divide between management and the rest of us. There’s the group of people who run the place: the CEO, director of operations, general manager, director of food and beverage, et cetera . . . I think I see those guys like once a year, tops. The rest of us have roles here that are far less glamorous: bartenders, surf instructors, boat captains, line cooks, lifeguards. We all live in staff housing on site. Picture a tiny room with a twin bed and not much else. But we make it work. Most of us are away from home and on our own, and we’re an eclectic mix: recent college graduates, retirees, nomads, nature lovers. Or in Cole’s case: stuffy boardroom types who get off on spreadsheets and ruining people’s fun.
