Page 37 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“We will be traveling to Bale Resorts. San Diego, Maui, Cabo, the Bahamas, the Keys, and NYC,” he rattles off.

“So the Villa Pacifica, The Oceana, The Baja Pearl, The Sea Pearl, The Sunset, and Seabreeze Estate,” I say, taking a sip of my wine and savoring it.

Morgan blinks slowly. I’ve learned in the small handful of times I have met him that the slower the blink, the more the shock. He won’t show outright shock; it’s more of a subtle thing for a man like him. I am an observant girl. What I have observed about Morgan Bale is that you can catch him off guard if you know how…and impressing him is how.

“You’ve done your homework,” he states, reaching for his glass again. His sip is a little fuller this time, another very subtle and very telling hint that I am slowly leveling the playing field.

“And here I thought I was traveling the country with a carefree nomad,” he says as the waiter sets down our scallops.

“I may be a nomad of sorts, but this is my real job, Mr. Bale, and I would hardly call it carefree–wait. Did you say traveling the country? We? As in you? As in–”

“Are you ready to order?” the waiter asks. “Or should I come back?”

I blink multiple times, much faster than Morgan’s aforementioned blinks. It’s my telltale sign that I have been thrown off my game. Morgan nods at me. “Ladies first,”

“I…I’ll have…the chicken,” I say.

“The pistachio-crusted or the chicken roulade?” he asks.

Chicken. I don’t know. Just chicken. If I heard right, and I’m pretty sure I did, I just found out that I will not only be working for the man I slept with at the Sapphire, but working with the man I slept with at the Sapphire. Those are two different things. Two very different, complicated, unagreed to things.

“The pistachio is great,” Morgan suggests.

“Yes. The pistachio is fine,” I say, handing the waiter the menu with a tight smile.

I don’t even hear what Morgan orders. The static in my ears from all my chaotic thoughts seems to be drowning out everything in the room. And as soon as the waiter walks away from our table again, I lock eyes on him.

“What do you mean, we?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, I thought I'd mentioned that. I’m coming with you,” he states as he serves each of us two scallops with some kind of creamy risotto on small plates. If I wasn’t so nauseous, I would say it looks divine.

“Why?” I sputter out. Morgan looks around, and it’s obvious that my voice is way too loud for this setting, so I lower it before going on. “I mean…I’m not trying to sound rude, but I usually work alone. It’s kind of my MO.”

“That’s fine,” he says, cutting into a scallop that is so tender it could probably be eaten with a spoon. “And for the most part, you will be alone. Writing and enjoying the amenities at each resort as we discussed.” He takes a bite and nods. “You should try the scallops.”

I look down at my plate and slice into one of them with my fork. Then I stab it and take a bite, chewing quickly at first so I can loop back to the conversation. But halfway through noshing, I stop, slowing down. Because this is the best freaking scallop I’ve ever had. And I have had some scallops, let me tell you.

“It’s like butter,” I say, covering my mouth, and I practically have to refrain from making sex noises as I chew.

“You were saying?” he asks, and I swallow.

“I just don’t understand why you are coming along?” I ask.

Morgan finishes the scallop, taking his time. Then he sets his utensils down, dabs his mouth with his napkin, and takes a small sip of wine before answering. I must say, he is the least hurried businessman I’ve ever been around. Everything he does is intentional.

“I’m going to be honest with you,” he states.

“Please.” I nod.

“That article that came out about Bale recently…it nearly flattened us. People are saying things, making assumptions, and labeling us as something we are not. It is not what we stand for nor how I want to be perceived. I realized that hiring a travel journalist to reshape our reputation isn’t enough. The guests, and the world, need to see all the effort that’s put into Bale that makes it great. The people need to see my efforts.”

“So you’re traveling to the hotels to…?” I trail off.

“To show them who we are and how the article was wrong,” he says.

“Makes sense.” I nod. And it does. It still doesn’t sit easy with me, but it at least makes sense. “So you’re going to be in the articles and the posts?” I ask. “On social media?”

Morgan visually cringes at that. “I mean, I’ve never been one to hang out in the limelight. My brother is usually the one who does that,” he says.