And Haymore loses it.
“You’re both fired,” he says. “Fired! Without severance!”
Casanova gives a little shake of his head, sending a fresh sprinkling of glass into the perfectly manicured grass beneath his feet. His arms are crisscrossed with cuts, but he gives a little smile.
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” he says cheerfully. “It’s just a window.”
Mr. Haymore looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.
“The press will be here in just over a week,” he says. “Carolson will be here tonight. This is not just a window. This is a huge problem. Rest assured, this will come out of your final paychecks.”
Casanova doesn’t seem particularly upset about this. Poor Luke, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to have heard any of it.
“We need to get them medical help,” I say. “Didn’t you say there was a nurse on staff? Or do we need to drive them into Barberville?”
Mr. Haymore blinks through his rage, apparently baffled by the suggestion that we have to help the two men who just (apparently) destroyed all of his hopes and dreams.
“The medical station is down the hall,” says a young woman just behind me. “Julia already went to get someone.”
Already, some of the others are stepping past us, moving to help the two men. Casanova shrugs them off and pulls himself up through the broken window as if nothing’s out of the ordinary (and who knows—maybe this is the norm for him), but Luke requires a little more assistance. The girl who was in the middle of this mess reaches out to him, but he jerks away. Blood dribbles from his nose down across his lip.
That’s when a couple of security guards finally get around to showing up.
“Where were you?” Haymore demands.
One of the guards shrugs as he helps support Luke. “We only got the call a couple of minutes ago. We came right over.”
My boss frowns. While there will be a full security team on the payroll by the time this place opens, right now there are only a handful of officers, and they’re more focused on keeping the general public out than dealing with internal problems. It’s a small point of pride that I suspect I’m one of the reasons these guys were brought on in the first place. Just six weeks ago or so, back when they were a little laxer about these things, I managed to sneak onto the property and spray paint dirty words all over the golf course. Juvenile, sure, but I’ve never experienced a rush like I did when I got chased off the property.
Well, at least until the day I showed up here with blond hair and a fake name.
Mr. Haymore is beside me again.
“Clear your schedule¸ Ms. Thomas,” he says.
“What?”
“This is now your top priority.” He waves his arm at the room around us. “Fix this place. Carolson cannot see it like this.”
“But—”
“Figure it out. I need to finish the preparations for the banquet tomorrow.” He closes his eyes and rubs his temples. “No complaints. Don’t think I won’t fire you, too.”
So now somehow I’m responsible for this mess? That plastic-wrap-across-the-toilet-seat thing is looking better and better by the minute. I wonder if I might be able to swipe some from the kitchen.
But I put on my Louisa Cunningham smile and nod.
“I’ll do everything I can,” I say. “I’ll need them to send up someone to fix this window, though.”
“I’ll put the call through,” he says. “Though I don’t even want to think about what else will suffer because of this.”
And with that, he turns and follows everyone else out of the room, leaving me alone with the mess.
I sigh. Might as well get to work.
For the first time, I take a good look around the room. This was once my family’s summer parlor. The large windows along the eastern wall let in lots of natural light this time of the year. Now, though?
Oh, God, I realize. It’s the freaking gift shop.
Technically, they’re calling it the “Welcome Center.” Apparently they think that makes it sound classier. And yes, there’s an information desk on the far side of the room that will be stocked with brochures and maps and helpful, smiling employees at all times. But there’s nothing classy about the brightly colored Huntington Manor merchandise scattered all over the room.
I walk over to one of the toppled tables. T-shirts of every color lie in piles on the floor, and I reach down and hold one up. It’s neon green and has a stylized image of the house embroidered in purple thread on the front. The words “Huntington Manor” are stitched in cursive below. I drop it back in the pile. A couple of feet away, a mannequin lies in pieces. I bend over and hoist it upright again. It’s wearing one of the T-shirts and a pair of jeans with “Huntington Manor” sewn in metallic thread on the back pockets.
Seriously? This place has branded jeans?
I look around. I might as well be at Disney World. There are Huntington Manor hats, tote bags, shot glasses, even Christmas ornaments. I even spot a “Kids Corner” with stuffed horses and Huntington Manor coloring books.
Rage boils up inside of me. I can’t be in here. I can’t look at all of this.
What did you expect? a little voice in my head says. They’re wringing all the money out of this place that they can. Of course they’re going to sell merchandise.
In the end, I decide to do some vacuuming first. There are a few members of the housekeeping staff already on duty, but I’m willing to do anything to put off dealing with the Huntington Manor Collection of Souvenir Crap. A few minutes later, I’m sucking up shards of glass and wood splinters out of the carpet and ignoring the T-shirts like the plague.
Look at the bright side, I tell myself. At least you won’t have to worry about running into Mr. Hunky Handyman anymore.
Even now, blood rushes to my cheeks at the thought of how I behaved with him. It was crazy, kissing that man. Reckless. Stupid.
Delicious, whispers that voice in my mind.
I run my tongue across my top lip, then immediately shake my head, trying to chase away the lusty thoughts that have suddenly filled my mind. The last thing I should be doing right now is indulging in dirty daydreams. I’m not supposed to be thinking about men. Period.
I manage to rein in my imagination for the better part of the morning, and I end up getting a decent amount of work done. After my lunch break, however, when I’ve done every other task I can think of, I’m forced to acknowledge that it’s finally time to suck it up and start working on the piles of merchandise.