Their Last Resort Read Online R.S. Grey

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: R.S. Grey Advertisement1

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I’ve never felt emotion like this, like red-hot flames are licking me from the inside, crawling up my legs, my waist, consuming me. He must see how much I hate him. I’m not doing a damn thing to mask my feelings.

I expect him to mirror them. After all, I’m eavesdropping outside his door. Though anger doesn’t seem to factor into the equation for Cole. It’s panic that seizes his eyes first as they widen into round saucers. Then, his eyebrows furrow with worry. He’s telling me something—screaming at me in silence—but I can’t see past my own hurt right now.

Worried I’ll make good on the fantasy of breaking his nose right here and now, I whip around and race down the hall, grateful that at least my tears don’t come until I’m far enough away that he can’t see them.

Go. To. Hell. Cole. Clark.

Chapter Thirteen

COLE

I’ve seen Paige sun kissed and happy on the beach, muddy and tired after a long hike, annoyed and on the brink of losing her patience with a difficult guest, drunk in the shower, bikini clad at the pool, and mesmerizingly beautiful on a sandbar under the stars. Never did I imagine seeing her like I did just now outside of my office.

The humor in her eyes, that light she always carries?

I sufficiently killed it.

When I caught her standing in the hallway outside my door, she didn’t bother to try to hide her emotions. Every raw feeling bubbled to the surface. It was like watching a heart split in two before my very eyes.

Whatever it is we’ve been doing this last year—playing a game, flirting, falling for each other—that’s done. She wanted me to see that loud and clear before she turned and fled down the hall.

My gut instinct is to race after her. I want to catch her, grab her hand, and pull her back against me. I can almost feel her body nestled against mine. That rage battling inside her. I can take it. I can withstand anything, so long as she eventually lets me say my piece and explain what she just overheard.

I almost do it. My feet carry me forward. My hand grips the doorknob. I’m swinging the door open, and then Todd asks me a question and I blink out of my trance.

I’m at work right now. My boss is standing behind me in my office, waiting for a response to an asinine question, and I have to stay here because Paige’s future at Siesta Playa depends on me playing my part in all this to a T.

I can’t chase after the girl.

Fuck.

Todd’s oblivious to my pending meltdown. He sits in my chair with his feet propped up on my desk while his fingernail digs for food near his right incisor. He’s stinking up my office to the point where, later, I’ll have to call housekeeping and ask them to come Lysol every surface so at least it smells like antiseptic rather than his body odor.

I stand at the door, frozen. While my heart still races in my chest, my worry stays pinned on what to do about Paige—my bad day trudges on. Since 5:00 a.m., my phone has been vibrating with incoming calls and texts, all of which pertain to issues with the preppers. Each year, we hike up the price of the hotel rooms during their convention in an attempt to deter them once and for all, and each year, they still flock to the resort like flies on shit.

I scroll through incoming texts.

. . . unruly guest in the buffet, trying to load a canteen with lobster tails . . .

. . . guy trying to siphon gas from the grounds crew’s truck . . .

. . . trying to steal and hoard antibiotics from Dr. Missick . . .

My morning continues like this, nose-diving from bad to worse as I respond to text messages and calls and try to tune out Todd’s incessant chatter about who else he wants to fire. I think I’m sitting at rock bottom, but then I realize I’m only on a shitty plateau. Rock bottom comes when a weather alert pings like a ringing alarm, hitting me right in the solar plexus.

The storm Todd was referring to earlier, a run-of-the-mill tropical storm brewing in the Atlantic, has now been officially bumped up to a Category One hurricane.

“Goddamn it!”

The words explode out of me before I can help it.

I never lose my temper, never raise my voice. I just . . . don’t.

But everyone has their breaking point. And apparently, I’ve found mine.

I quickly scroll through the details of the alert, trying to get the gist as I read it aloud to myself.

“Meteorologists suspect it will strengthen . . . potentially turning into a Category Two or Three before it makes landfall in less than forty-eight hours.”


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