Page 2 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

She’s tall, deliciously curvy, with honey brown hair, dressed like every other guest here.

But there is something about her that is less like everyone else. Something I can’t pinpoint.

She turns just enough for me to catch her profile while she talks to the kid behind the desk, smiling like whatever he just told her made her entire day.

The funny thing about her is she doesn’t seem to notice me watching her.

Most people notice me.

Especially women.

Maybe it’s my height. The way I stand, with purpose. Steady and deliberate. Or maybe it’s my two-thousand-dollar suit.

Or maybe it’s that you look like your father.

That or Gerard Butler. I’ve been confused for him more than once.

Either way, people recognize me, a reminder that these resorts are mine.

And women who recognize me are usually only looking for one thing. Money.

But this girl, with her hourglass figure, beach-wave hair, rosy cheeks and even rosier lips, has zero idea that I am staring at her.

And something about that is intriguing.

“This is wonderful,” she says with a smile in her voice.

She spins around and grabs her bag off the floor. It’s a brightly colored suitcase, small enough to be a carry-on, and every inch of it is tattooed in stickers. Either places she’s been or places she wants to go.

I watch her walk away toward the elevators, her hips swaying with every step.

“Next,” the kid at the desk calls, breaking me out of my trance.

I step forward.

“Executive suite,” I say.

The clerk hands me the key.

I pocket it without another thought.

All I want now is a room, ten minutes of silence, and a shower hot enough to wash Conrad Bale and the entire fucking board meeting off me.

Chapter 2

Scarlett

“The suite,” I say as I spin in a circle in the middle of the room, phone on speaker in hand. “Can you believe they gave me the executive suite?”

“I thought every room at those bougie hotels was a suite,” my sister Claire says in her usual, unimpressed tone.

I can tell by the commotion in the background she is driving.

“They are. But this one is extra suite,” I tell her, pun intended. “It looks like some kind of Tahitian cabana. Like we’re still in Miami, but it’s got bamboo and vaulted ceilings and a view of the ocean. I swear I can see Mexico from here!”

I wander over to the wet bar while Claire tells me that’s not how geography works and pick up one of the wine glasses sitting upside down on a little gold tray.

There’s a red lipstick smudge along the rim.