Page 22 of Erotic Temptations 1

THE END

Diamond Peak Hotel

If I gripped the wheel any harder, it would become a permanent part of my arms. The snow wasn’t even coming down that hard. It was the winding backroad, on an incline no less, that made me want to pull over and wait until Old Man Winter was done with its snit. My tires only had half their tread left. Every time a gust of wind rocked my car, one tire would spin slightly on the snowy road.

I mashed the accelerator. My tires spun like they were auditioning for a cartoon and not landing the part. The whole car fishtailed, and with a heart-thud that belonged in a horror movie, I jerked the wheel and coasted up the rest of the winding driveway at quarter-speed, praying my sorry Toyota would actually make it to the top.

Just in case, I rubbed the dash. “Come on, sweetie. You can make it. Be my Thomas the Tank Engine.”

As I reached the top, I let out a gasp. The Diamond Peak looked like someone had dropped a layer of frosting over a gingerbread mansion. It had three stories, wide eaves, and a bunch of glass windows glowing with lights like a freshly lit menorah. Pine trees circled the whole building, wrapped in twinkly white bulbs. I coasted into the back lot, slid into a parking spot, and let the engine idle until my hands stopped shaking. First day of the new gig and I’d almost gone into a ditch. If this was a sign from the universe, I was screwed.

Turning off my car, I fumbled for my phone. Not that anyone was waiting for a text. The last few weeks had been a parade of “Sorry, Cam, we wish you the best” and “Don’t forget to leave your keys on the counter.” My situation felt like a cosmic joke, and I was definitely the punchline.

Bone-chilling cold air socked me in the nose when I opened my door. Something about mountain air was supposed tobe invigorating, but that only applied if you weren’t hauling suitcases the size of a kindergartener. I yanked my duffel from the backseat, immediately regretted packing my weighted blanket, and started the trek across the parking lot.

The staff entrance was supposed to be on the side, but all I found were locked double doors and one of those sad plastic ashtrays, full of snow and old butts. I stomped through the crusty drifts, making a snowplow trail with my sneakers, feeling approximately as dignified as a penguin in tap shoes.

Hedges of pine bushes sprouted along the walkway, dusted with snow. One of them twitched. I stopped dead, pulse hammering. There, caught in a weird moment of eye contact, was a snow rabbit. It glared, then twitched an ear like it was judging my life choices.Same, rabbit. Same.

My face was frozen, my toes couldn’t feel feelings anymore, and I was starting to doubt the concept of “back door” entirely. I gave up and lumbered around to the front, duffel in tow.

The main entrance was all glass and pine garlands, with twin Christmas trees flanking the doors, decked out in bows and gold ornaments like they were dolled up for a prom. The snow had let up, but the wind still sneaked down my collar as I squinted up at the roofline. Pretty, but if you stared long enough, it was borderline intimidating, like it was daring you to scuff up its fancy lobby with your Walmart luggage.

Something flickered at the edge of my vision, out by the bank of plowed snow near the curb. Might have been a person. Or it might have been my last brain cell hallucinating. I squinted, waiting for a sign of movement, but whatever it was had vanished. Snow ghosts. Just what I needed on top of everything else.

Inside, it smelled like cinnamon, gingerbread, and that weird chemical-clean that only hotels had. The foyer was one big echo chamber of tile, wood, and more Christmas decorations persquare foot than should be legal. There were people everywhere, blinking up at plastic mistletoe and stringing lights along the banister. Housekeeping bustled through with bins and bags, already looking harried.

I was overdressed for housekeeping, underdressed for a hotel guest, and I’d managed to drag half the debris of the parking lot in with me, judging by the salt stains on my jeans. Perfect. Just blending right in.

I headed for the front desk, which was carved wood, glossy, and a little too high, like maybe it was designed to make short people feel self-conscious. The guy behind the counter proved my theory immediately. He was tall, his dark hair cut close. His trimmed facial hair belonged in a cologne ad, and his blue eyes looked like they actually noticed things. I immediately looked away so I wouldn’t get caught staring then realized the alternative was staring at the glossy brochure for the “Diamond Peak Christmas Gala,” with its ballroom dancers and tuxedos. Hah.

He came to the counter and said, “Hey. Can I help you?” His voice was low. Solid. No-nonsense, but not unfriendly.

This was where a normal person might’ve said something cool. “Hi, I’m here to save your life and revolutionize your cleaning department.” But nope, my tongue decided to take a vacation.

“Cameron Locker. I’m the new housekeeper. Uh, staff quarters?” I awkwardly held out my hand then immediately wondered if hotel people shook hands. He took it anyway. His palm was warm. Mine was sort of clammy, and holy hell, I probably crushed his hand like I was desperate.

He nodded, and for one panicked second, I thought he was going to tell me I’d been replaced already. “Gabe Corran,” he said. “Front desk. Welcome to Diamond Peak, Cameron.”

He said my name in a way that made me want to hear him say it again, which was embarrassing, so I focused on the countertop instead. It probably had more polish than my entire wardrobe. “Thanks. Sorry I tracked in half of, uh, the parking lot.”

Gabe cracked a smile, faint but kind of devastating. “That’s what the mats are for.” He paused like he was deciding something. “You want to see your room?”

“Yes. Please. Unless you have a time machine and can send me back to five minutes ago so I can wear literally anything else.”

He almost laughed. Or at least, his mouth twitched. “You look fine.” He angled his head toward the side hallway. “Staff quarters are this way.”

I fumbled with my bag and followed. My steps echoed off the tile. Someone had hung more garland above the doorframes, and it looked like a box of red bows had exploded, which was kind of festive, if you had a thing for ribbons.

Past the lobby, the hallways became narrower and the lighting dropped several notches. He led me through a maze of turns until we were in Staff Only territory, which was basically “less holiday, more electrical outlets.” There were a few maintenance carts in the corridor, and somewhere distant there was the distinct hum of vacuuming. I tried not to think about the fact I’d never worked in an actual hotel before. Maid service, sure. Dorm cleaning. But this was a step up, if the corridor was any indication.

Gabe opened a door with a key he pulled from his pocket, and we were in a plain, white-walled room, which was, honestly, better than some apartments I’d seen. There was one twin bed, a battered dresser, and sheets that looked fresh, which counted for a lot.

“You’ll share the bathroom at the end of the hall,” Gabe said, sounding apologetic but not really. “Wi-Fi password’s on the back of the door.”

“Free Wi-Fi? I might never leave,” I joked, immediately regretting it.Entirely possible that sounded too eager.

He raised an eyebrow, not unkindly. “Let me know if you need anything.” The way he said it, it didn’t sound like he was just being polite. Then he was gone, leaving a faint waft of his cologne in the air, cedar and something crisp.