Do Not Disturb (Resort Romances #1) Read online

  Also by Mary Billiter

  Resort Romances

  Do Not Disturb (Coming Soon)

  Table of Contents

  Also By Mary Billiter

  Do Not Disturb (Resort Romances)

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

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  Further Reading: For the Love of Gracie

  Also By Mary Billiter

  Do Not Disturb © 2016 by Mary Billiter

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any written, electronic, recorded, or photocopied format without the express permission from the author or publisher as allowed under the terms and conditions with which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution, circulation or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Do Not Disturb is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places found therein are either from the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to persons alive or dead, actual events, locations, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  For information, contact the publisher, Hot Tree Publishing.

  www.hottreepublishing.com

  Editing: Hot Tree Editing

  Cover Designer: Claire Smith

  ISBN: 978-1-925448-46-7

  Dedication

  When I think back to all that has happened since my breast cancer diagnosis last October 2015, one of the constants has been my little brother, Patrick's, ability to make me laugh. When I started losing my hair, he reminded me that I still had more than him.

  During Thanksgiving, when I gifted the men in my life—my husband, brothers-in-law, and brothers—each with a pink tie in honor of breast cancer awareness, Patrick was the only one who tied it around his head and wore it like a headdress during dinner.

  The next morning, Patrick woke early to run beside my husband and me in a 5k race because he knew I started training for it before I was diagnosed. He knew how much it meant to me to finish what I had started.

  And when I shared my fear of dying and leaving my husband and children, my baby brother, assured me, even promised that I would live to grow old with Ron, see my twins graduate collage, my daughter finish high school and my youngest son begin the fourth grade. Patrick was the voice of reason when I had none.

  There is no way to ever adequately thank him for being there when I fell apart. So, baby brother, I wrote this book to celebrate what I treasure most about our relationship: the laughter.

  And since you were blessed with the best name in the family (Patrick Flanagan Billiter), I borrowed part of it to bring this story to life.

  I love you more than you will ever know.

  Mary

  Chapter One

  When did you sneak in line?

  Dressed in faded blue jeans and a rust-colored button-down that screamed to be unbuttoned, the anonymous stranger suddenly made the wait for the hotel to open its doors a lot more enticing.

  The mystery man stood behind me, and a good foot taller too. What a package. Towering over me with dark gelled-back hair and the most amazing hazel eyes, he looked toward me but never really connected. It’s hard to explain how one person can look at you and yet not really see you, but that was what he did and I wanted more. I craved eye contact, real eye contact, with this gorgeous guy until it etched up my spine and sat in my throat. Delicious.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” A booming voice rang overhead. A man with lacquered black hair, a bullhorn, and a really bad tie stood on the edge of the hotel’s loading dock.

  I straightened my posture and discreetly slid my hands down my gray-and-black-plaid skirt that had a tendency to gravitate up.

  “I’m Bill Clark, the Director of Hotel Security,” the bullhorn-wielding man continued. “Thank you for your patience. We’ll be starting the interview process soon.”

  Thank God. I rubbed my hands together. It’s June. Where’s the sun? I pulled the sides of my black cardigan together. It didn’t block the ocean breeze that had a serious bite to it, and worse, it hid my new charcoal-colored tank. I could accidentally rub up against Mr. Hottie-With-a-Body. That’d keep me warm. Instead, I slightly turned toward him and discreetly stubbed my boots on the asphalt to waken my numb toes.

  I casually glanced past him to the line that had tripled since I’d arrived at seven that morning. I’d been among the first dozen camped outside the hotel’s loading dock, waiting for the doors to open. My position, though, gave me easy access to survey the throng of other applicants.

  Orange County, the infamous “OC,” had rolled out the red carpet for its newest waterfront hotel in Huntington Beach. Attention-grabbing ads ran in California newspapers and radio stations. The mass hiring event wanted what the OC always wanted: the best of the best.

  I was one of many in the ranks of recent college graduates looking for a paycheck. I had to find a source of income to continue the lifestyle my parents had funded during the six years I was in school. I blame changing my major twice for the delay in my degree. It really didn’t matter, though, because since having a gold tassel hanging from the rearview mirror of my new car, supposedly I could function without the safety net of my parents’ bimonthly allowance checks. My status of residence independence was yet to be determined.

  Though I hadn’t recognized anyone in particular, everyone seemed oddly familiar. It was the packaging. It’s always the packaging. Placing people into imaginary groups—jocks, cheerleaders, freaks, and geeks—was a bad habit I’d picked up in high school and couldn’t seem to shake.

  Suddenly, I felt the heat of his stare. I glanced over and smiled nervously in his direction. I overdid my fun, flirty smile, and my mouth stretched so wide that I was pretty sure I looked like the Joker, which unfortunately was exactly like my driver’s license photo. I don’t tend to smile very well under pressure.

  Turned toward me, his hazel gaze warmed, I’m sure in sympathy. There were deep shadows beneath his bloodshot eyes.

  “Rough night?” The question escaped before I had enough gumption to choke it back.

  “You have no idea.” He chuckled huskily, beckoning me further into the dark unknown.

  I leaned against the brick retaining wall and tried to regain my composure, if not steady my breathing, only my cardigan clung to the gray cinder blocks. Crappity, crap, crap. I’m stuck. I tilted my head, hoping he hadn’t noticed that I was now a permanent fixture in the loading dock.

  “That’s rough.” And apparently so is my ability to speak.

  His mouth quirked into another smile, and my knees almost gave out.

  “So what are you interviewing for?” I asked.

  “Banquets.”

  “Huh.” I racked my brain for what that meant. A banquet fit for a king. Serve a banquet of food. Only clichés flooded forward. “So you’re a server?”

  “No.” A slow shake of his head before closing his eyes.

  That was fast. I usually don’t lose them that quickly.

  Then he spoke.

  “I’m a banquet captain.” He opened his eyes.

  “Oh.” I nodded as if that clarified things.

  “My name’s Tim Jansen.” He extended his hand, his gaze holding mine.

  For a moment I hesitated. This is trouble. I carefully stepped away from the brick wall, and thankfully, my cardigan came with me. I placed my hand in his, and his gaze never left mine. Wowza. I was dumbstruck, literally, in both senses of the word “dumb.” I could neither talk nor think clearly or rationally.

  My heart leapt in my chest, and my breathing became fast and rapid. My knees felt weak, and I wasn’t sure if my legs would hold out.

  I broke eye contact and glanced at his hand that held mine—large, tan, warm—he had an instant effect on me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to continue to touch me or release his grip and its paralyzing effect. I couldn’t look away nor could I breathe. My brain and tongue were both rendered useless by the man I’d just met.

  Holy hell, he’s beautiful. If he asked for anything—the keys to my new car, my place in the interview line, my social security number—I’d have given it to him. Good thing I can’t see how good-looking an Internet scammer is, otherwise my identity would have been stolen weekly.

  “Everyone calls me TJ.” He held my hand, his hazel eyes drawn together in thought. “And you are?”

  “Um... what?” My brain faded to black.

  “Your name?” His smile made it hard to focus.

  “Oh y
eah. I mean, hi. I’m Katie Flanagan. But everyone calls me... well, Katie.” I gave a puzzled shake of my head and felt my face flush.

  “You’re funny.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “So what are you interviewing for?”

  “Um, well, you see.” I floundered. “I just quit my job at this radio station, and I’ve got this car payment, and I recently moved back home with my mom and dad....” His eyes closed again. I’m putting him to sleep. You twit. You big twit. Shut up and answer the question.

  “I’m interviewing with the Human Resources department.”

  His eyes popped open in surprise. “Aren’t we all interviewing with HR?”

  “Yeah. Duh, of course.” I shrugged and when I laughed I sounded like a hyena. Awesome.

  This time, he smiled broadly, and I felt a huge spike in my body temperature. I was either going to faint or spontaneously combust before him. It was hard to know. With each raised eyebrow he shot toward me, my body reacted differently.

  “What I meant to say”—trying to regain what little composure I had left—“is that I’m interviewing for a position in the Human Resources department.”

  He nodded.

  “Clerk,” I blurted. “It’s the HR clerk. Position.”

  “Great.”

  Nope, it’s not, but I’m desperate. I should have lied. Said I was... what? What’s cool? I’ve never been cool at the same time others were cool. In fact, I wasn’t sure cool was the right word. Whether it was my clothes, my hairstyle, or my choice in profession, I’ve always felt one step behind and today was no exception. I was on a downhill roll, and TJ had witnessed my bumpy ride into hell.

  Hell of another kind erupted when Mr. Clark appeared again with his bullhorn.

  “Hello folks. We’ll now be accepting applicants in parties of ten. So please count off into groups.”

  The countdown began. I quickly tallied the heads in front of me and smiled. I was nine and not surprisingly, TJ was a perfect ten. Suh-weet.

  The countdown continued through the serpentine line that wrapped along the perimeter of the hotel and onto the sidewalk along Pacific Coast Highway. The salty air was palatable. I deeply inhaled and waited for instructions.

  “Once you have numbered off, please group together and introduce yourselves to one another. It’s important that you know the other members in your group.”

  Five years of college had trained me to listen to instructors’ cues, and Mr. Clark was definitely letting us know a key component to the interviewing process. I just couldn’t help being distracted by his hideous tie. It was blaze orange with white dancing skeletons. I mean, who wore their Halloween stuff in June? Not even my mom was that early.

  I focused on his face as he spoke into the bullhorn.

  “Since you’ll be entering in groups,” he said, “please get to know one another.”

  That meant I had very little time to get the 411 on nine other people, including TJ.

  I didn’t really know anything about TJ other than what my body was responding to, which wasn’t something I wanted to share with a potential employer.

  Hi, I’m Katie, and this incredible hottie next to me is TJ. He’s got a kickin’ nickname, a wicked smile, and he wants to be a banquet captain, which could be code for dishwasher for all I know. Hire him, hire me, and make us strip beds together.

  I shook my head. Focus, Katie. There’s gotta be someone here you know.

  The interviews were being held in my hometown of Huntington Beach, California. Surf City, USA. Perfect weather, perfect beaches, lined with perfect bodies.

  I surveyed the faces in line and realized I was probably the only local amidst the mass of coeds, except maybe for the one I’d dubbed Malibu and her sidekick, Skipper.

  Another habit I picked up, only this time from the radio station. I’d been working to be the next Erin Burnett, except I’d always seemed to forget people’s names—a major drawback in live interviews. My editor had suggested I create word associations or nicknames to remember people. I did and it stuck. Now I mentally baptized everyone with a new name.

  “I’d like to see who they’re gonna hire to clean the toilets,” the blonde, who had the shape, tan, and mane of a Malibu Barbie doll, said while we were walking inside the hotel.

  “Oh, I know. I mean really,” said her friend, who wasn’t as pretty as Malibu. But sadly neither was Skipper, the doll created to be Barbie’s younger sister. I understood her pain. In the Mattel world of Barbies, with my short legs, solid gymnast-like build, and brown hair, I was a Skipper.

  I was about to mutter something when TJ echoed my thoughts.

  “It’s too early for this shit,” he grumbled.

  I smiled, but found my attention returning to Malibu and Skipper’s conversation.

  “You know I’m going to be seriously pissed if all the hostess jobs are filled,” Malibu piped up again.

  “Trish, don’t even worry. This is the Waterfront Point. They’re going to take one look at you and want you,” Skipper gushed.

  “You think?”

  “Please. Are you serious?”

  “Oh, you’re such a doll.” Malibu shook her shoulder-length straight hair. “Do you think they’ll recognize me?”

  I squinted in her direction.

  “Who are you?” I mumbled to myself, but TJ heard me and answered from behind.

  “She’s one of the Pacific Pro bikini girls.”

  “Huh.” I was really stretching my vocabulary. But what did it matter how I sounded when less than ten yards away was one of Huntington’s bikini-clad finest? Sure, the Pacific Pro girls weren’t paid, but the national exposure from their bikini calendar was priceless. Something I’d learned at the radio station: It’s all about the exposure. In Malibu’s case, the Pacific Pro bikinis’ exposure gave her more coverage than Sports Illustrated.

  “Hmm.” I felt myself shrink as I was herded into the hotel. “Funny how that is,” I said under my breath. TJ’s bionic ears piped up again.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Oh, just that....” I looked up at him and paused before blurting out some random insecurity that surfaced once Barbie garnished a title. Nope, definitely not first-time conversation material. “Just wondering if they knew this isn’t Hooters.”

  A broad grin broke across his face. “You’re funny.”

  “Well, hopefully that’s what they’re looking for in HR, someone funny.”

  “No, you’re smart.”

  My face must have conveyed my confusion.

  “I can tell. It’s just something you can tell about someone.”

  What part of my distorted, rambling repartee gave the impression that I was smart?

  “Thanks,” I mumbled.

  “Don’t worry.” He gave a pointed glance toward Malibu and Skipper. “They’re nothing.”

  “I’m not worried,” I lied, though I wasn’t sure why.

  TJ yawned and covered his mouth. “Man, I could sleep for two days and still be tired.” He rubbed his eyes.

  Oh, how I’d love to join you.

  Instead, I was crammed into a hallway with nine other twentysomethings. Mr. Clark handed a guy named Chris a sheet of nametags and a black permanent marker. Once the pen was passed around, I read everyone’s tag and realized that there were two Chrises in my group of ten.

  I don’t know what it is about guys named Chris, but I’ve known more than a dozen in my lifetime and they’ve all become my best friends. I had two potential BFFs in this group: Chris Colombo and Chris Bogart.

  Chris Colombo, the most annoying applicant, oddly reminded me of the Keebler Elf. He was short, frumpy, and for a young man, he had a shock of unruly white hair. The cookie-making man had big aspirations of working his way up to general manager, he informed us, but first he was willing to “settle” for the front desk. I was willing to stick him back into a tree and have him churn out some tasty cookies. I was hungry.

  The other Chris or “Bogart,” as he preferred to be called, drove a vintage Mustang, and his favorite store was Trader Joes. At thirty-one, Bogart was the self-declared oldest in our group, an engineer by trade, and the nicest Chris in the mix. He had dark hair, like TJ’s, only Bogart didn’t look like he spent as much time on it. Bogart’s hair was cut short on the sides, and the top spiked naturally. No gel, no slick look—just this haphazard bristly mess that looked good. Bogart was an obvious draw for one of the girls in our group, who practically stood on top of him to introduce herself.