Two
811 Words
Time seemed to slow as I took him in – broad shoulders filling out an impeccably tailored suit, a strong jawline dusted with just the right amount of stubble, and eyes so blue they put the California sky to shame. For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
"I... um..." I stammered, my brain short-circuiting as I tried to remember how words worked. "Good morning, sir. I'm here to clean the room."
The man's eyebrows rose slightly, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. "Is that so?" he said, his voice a rich baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. "And here I thought you might be my breakfast date."
I felt heat rush to my cheeks. Was he flirting with me? Surely not. Men who looked like him didn't flirt with hotel maids. "I'm sorry, Mr...?"
"Thornton," he said, extending a hand. "Kyle Thornton. And you are?"
"Betsy," I managed, taking his hand. The moment our skin made contact, I felt a jolt of electricity race up my arm. "Betsy Matthews."
Kyle's grip was firm, his hand engulfing mine. He held on a fraction longer than was strictly necessary, his intense gaze never leaving my face. "Well, Betsy Matthews," he said, a smile playing at his lips, "it's a pleasure to meet you."
I was acutely aware of how I must look – my practical shoes and utilitarian uniform a stark contrast to his bespoke suit and air of easy confidence. I felt small and insignificant in his presence, yet at the same time, utterly seen.
"I can come back later if this isn't a good time," I offered, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism.
Kyle glanced at his watch – a sleek, expensive-looking thing that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. "Actually, your timing is perfect. I was just heading out for a meeting." He stepped back, gesturing for me to enter. "The room's all yours, Betsy."
As I wheeled my cart past him, I caught a whiff of his cologne – a heady mix of sandalwood and something uniquely masculine. It made my head spin in a way that had nothing to do with the early hour.
"I'll be out of your way in no time, Mr. Thornton," I said, trying to focus on the task at hand and not on the way his presence seemed to fill the entire suite.
Kyle lingered by the door, watching me with an intensity that made my skin tingle. "Please, call me Kyle," he insisted. "Mr. Thornton makes me feel like my father."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. I busied myself with unloading my cart, hyper-aware of his eyes on me.
Just as I was about to ask if he needed anything else before I started cleaning, a sharp ring cut through the air. Kyle's expression changed in an instant, his easy charm replaced by a mask of cool professionalism as he reached for his phone.
"Thornton," he barked into the device, turning away from me as if I'd ceased to exist.
I tried not to eavesdrop as I began straightening the living area, but in the confines of the suite, it was impossible not to overhear snippets of his conversation.
"I don't care what it takes," Kyle hissed, his voice low and dangerous. "Get it done, or the deal's off. And trust me, you don't want to know what happens if this falls through."
A chill ran down my spine. The man speaking now was a far cry from the charming flirt of moments ago. This Kyle Thornton sounded like someone you didn't want to cross.
The call ended abruptly, and when Kyle turned back to me, his face was a careful blank. "My apologies, Betsy. Duty calls." He strode towards the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "I trust you'll take good care of things here?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. As he left, the suite suddenly felt both too empty and too full – empty of his commanding presence, but full of questions and a lingering tension I couldn't quite name.
With a sigh, I turned to survey the room. It was a mess, evidence of a night of excess strewn about. Empty champagne bottles littered the coffee table, and discarded clothing formed a trail leading to the rumpled bed. I pulled on my gloves, pushing thoughts of Kyle Thornton and his mysterious phone call to the back of my mind. I had a job to do, after all.
As I moved through the suite, straightening and cleaning, I couldn't help but let my imagination run wild. Who was Kyle Thornton? A businessman, obviously, but what kind? The suite's opulence and his expensive suit suggested old money, but there was an edge to him that hinted at someone who had clawed his way to the top.
- Writer
