breathing air, last time I checked,” he grunted. “And anyway, I might—wait a minute, what’s that noise?” He came around the corner in his chef’s whites. “What the heck do you think you’re doing?"
“Just getting some orange juice for breakfast.” Cady hastily stepped out of the icy refrigerator.
“Oh, no, you’re not. Get your own.”
“It’s not for me, it’s for the breakfast bar. Come on, it’s just a little juice,” she wheedled.
“I got twenty pounds of salmon to marinate. No such thing as a little orange juice.” He shook his knife at her.
“I brought you tomatoes yesterday,” she protested.
“Don’t think that gets you off the hook.” For a big guy, he moved fast.
Lucky she was small and faster. “Think of the headlines. Juicing Chef Offs Plucky Desk Clerk.” Cady made a break for the door. “What will Malika do while you’re in jail?"
“Buy her own orange juice, I hope,” Roman growled, but she saw his grin before she escaped out the door.
She’d say this for working the desk: the time went quickly. She’d blinked once, maybe twice, and it was going on one in the afternoon. Of course, time had a way of flying when you were lurching from crisis to crisis.
Every time the door opened, it seemed, it heralded another person with a problem or question or emergency for her. As always, living a bit of her parents’ life only increased her respect for them. Roman was right; they needed more help, whether they could afford it or not. A few hours into one of their days and already she was worn-out.
She’d cleaned up breakfast dishes, folded bedspreads and sheets in the laundry, vacuumed the lobby, baked scones for afternoon tea. She’d handed out directions, jumped the car of a guest who’d left her dome light on all night and calmed the hysterics of a maid who’d found a mouse in the linen closet. Smiling, always smiling, even talking to the guest who’d plugged his toilet trying to flush a washcloth.
A washcloth.
What was it about people in hotels? she wondered for the thousandth time as she hurried back to the office behind the reception area to call the plumber. They did things that they would never do at home. What kind of ninny put a washcloth down a toilet? And now, here she was with another maintenance bill to further stretch the inn’s budget, already strained to its breaking point.
Like her patience.
The door jingled again and she flinched.
“Anybody home?” A man’s voice carried in through the open top of the Dutch door. Cady could hear his boot heels thud on the lobby floor with each step. Not one of the staff. It didn’t sound like one of the guests she’d packed off to go shopping in Freeport or Kennebunkport, either, which probably meant that it was the day’s arrival. Perfect. The fact that check-in was clearly listed as 3:00 p.m. never stopped guests from showing up an hour or two early and blithely expecting to be shown to their rooms, whether the maids had finished their cleaning rounds or not.
“Hello?”
“Just a minute.” Suppressing the urge to snap, Cady walked to the opening. “What do you—” And her voice died in her throat.
His was the face of a sixteenth-century libertine. Lean and angular, with razor-sharp cheekbones, it was a face that knew pleasure. She could imagine him dueling at dawn or seducing high-born ladies. She could imagine him slashing paint over canvas in an artist’s garret or bending over a keyboard, pounding out impassioned blues in a smoky, late-night club.
His dark, straight brows matched the wavy hair that flowed to his shoulders. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning and the shadow of a beard ran along the bottom of his face like the artful shading of a charcoal sketch, drawing attention to the line of jaw, the strong chin, framing his mouth.
His mouth.
Temptation and mischief, fascination and promise. It was the kind of mouth that offered laughter, the kind of mouth that offered an invitation to decadence.
And delicious, lingering kisses.
Sudden color flooded her cheeks. Look at her, standing there staring at him like an idiot.
Get it together, Cady.
She cleared her throat. “Welcome to the Compass Rose. Are you here to check in?"
“Kind of. I’m looking for Amanda or Ian McBain.”
“They’re not around just now, I’m afraid. I’d be happy to help you, though."
The corner of his mouth curved up a bit. “My good luck.”
It was said with the casual ease of a guy who turned every woman he met into putty, the kind of guy who charmed as second nature. Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t big on good-looking guys in general, and she was in no mood to be charmed, not after the morning she’d had. “Your room’s probably not ready this early, but I’ll check with housekeeping.” When she got around to it. “Here’s your paperwork, anyway. It’s Donnelly, right? Scott Donnelly?"
“Hurst,” he corrected. “Damon Hurst.”
“Welcome to the Compass Rose Guest Quarters, Mr.—” Cady stopped. Stared at him blankly. “Damon Hurst?” she repeated. “The Damon Hurst?"
“The same.”
She saw it now—the famous cheekbones, the Renaissance hair, the face that had graced a hundred magazine covers.
And a thousand tabloid stories over his half decade of infamy.
Damon Hurst, the enfant terrible of the Cooking Channel, the charismatic star who’d sent the upstart network soaring against its entrenched rival before he’d flamed out the year before. Known more for his baroque personal life and volatile kitchen persona than for his undeniably brilliant cuisine, he’d been the subject of speculation, rumors, spite and stories too outrageous to be believed.
Except that they were true.
Cady cleared her throat. “Yes, well, welcome to the Compass Rose, Mr. Hurst,” she said. “It’ll take a little time to get a room put together for you but we do have a vacancy. If you’ll just fill out the registration form, please?” She put the paper on the little counter that topped the lower half of the door.
“I’m not checking in.”
Cady frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“The restaurant.”
“Ah. I see.” She hadn’t realized that the Sextant, the Compass Rose’s restaurant, had a reputation that stretched all the way to Manhattan. Then again, with his shows very publicly canceled and his restaurant doors shuttered, maybe Damon Hurst had little else to do than run around obscure eateries in Maine. She dredged up a faint smile. “The Sextant is just across the parking lot. I believe they’re still serving lunch."
“I’m not here for lunch, either,” he said. He was laughing
