Chapter 8

CHAPTER

EIGHT

NATIE

[SGS Group Chat]

Me : Why did I think having two jobs would make my life more fulfilled?

Firass : Because I'm your best friend and you love me?

Dylan : Is Fee running you ragged at the game company?

Hamadi : Am I going to have to kick his ass?

Firass : I am a fair employer, thank you very much.

Me : I appreciate the offer to "help".

Me : It's not the gaming company. It's the hotel.

Dylan : I thought the resort was your whole life?

Me : It is. But maybe it's not enough anymore. (sad emoji)

I carry the large round tray past dozens of patrons enjoying lunch. I place the heavy thing on the stand and the porcelain plates clink. I hope I'm not too sweaty, since I haven't covered for a waiter in years. That's what happens when a staff member calls in sick. The life of a manager is never a dull one here at Shiba's Seaside.

Santana and Wayne, the gorgeous couple, chat with each other while I move the plates around. They're accompanied by the woman from before and Santos, the man I apologized to weeks ago. All four of them have been patient with me as I've rushed to get their culinary samples ready. Mom and Dad didn't remember to book a table for them, but fortunately, our head chef isn't too swamped today. He's cooking fresh meals for them, but that's going to take some time, so we're starting with whatever desserts are available.

This tasting could have been a disaster. Yet another reason I want to leave the resort, but I refrain from quitting outright. If I worked at GBS Games full-time, no one would have been here today to cater to this couple. They're a huge contract for the resort, but if we don't pull this off, they can cancel their booking, leaving behind their measly deposit and a negative online review.

I've devoted my whole life to supporting the family resort, but these days, cleaning up after my parents' messes doesn't feel worth it. I've lost my passion for the hotel, and I'm terrified of telling my parents I want to leave the empire they've built.

The woman in front of me pulls me out of my spiral of inner self-loathing. "Ooh, what's all this?" Santana asks eagerly.

I give her a quick smile then turn my attention back to arranging the plates. It all needs to be perfect.

"We've got four different cakes to choose from. The chef's specialties were all in stock."

"Sounds yummy," the woman next to Santos—Gretchen, I think?—comments. She's leaning into him like a cat on a scratching post, and I bite back a growl. She may not be his girlfriend, but I guess she didn't get the memo. Still, the last thing I want to do is give Santos or Santana a reason to get mad at me. Professionality, Natie. "Hopefully it tastes good."

"We trust you." Santos's warm voice gives me pause. His brown eyes shine like pools of amber in the afternoon sun. His dark stubble accentuates his perfect jawline, two features I never received during puberty. I've been so preoccupied with covering the resort restaurant that I haven't given Santos a second thought. We haven't spoken in weeks, but I knew it was likely that he'd be here for wedding planning. Of course, I thought Dad and Mom would have it under control.

I clear my throat and smile. Santana and Wayne stare at me expectantly, while Gretchen takes pictures with her phone. Showtime .

"So, we have a strawberry shortcake, a double-chocolate cake, a butterscotch and cream cake, and my personal favorite, a peach shortcake."

The quartet oohs and aahs at the plates before them. Each flavor of cake has its own coaster and fork, meaning I lugged sixteen tiny plates in one go. I'm proud of myself for my coordination, but right now, all I care about is that Santana and Wayne are happy.

And yes, maybe a tiny part of me wants to look competent in front of Santos. He's a hot, muscular dude, I'm a single queer man—so sue me.

"It all looks amazing," Wayne remarks.

"I know." Santana beams. "Which should we try first?"

"The peach," Santos says. I'm once again locked in his gaze. He's wearing a white shirt that fits snugly over his pecs, and I'm frozen in place. His eyes pull me in, like he has so much he wants to tell me. "Why…is it your f-f-favorite?"

The others glance at him, then turn to me with interest. Right—questions need responses in the form of words. "Um…it's not too sweet. It's lighter and fluffier, common traits with the cakes in Japan. So…if less sugar is what you want, this delivers. It's what I enjoy."

"Less sugar, huh?" Gretchen asks. She eyes me up and down. "I see it's done wonders for you." I blink at her; I guess she's that affectionate with everyone.

"Please stop flirting with my wedding coordinator, Gretchen," Santana chides. She and Wayne pick up their forks. "Stop spitting game and start eating cake." My cheeks warm and I fixate on the pretty food before me; anything to avoid their gaze.

"Okay, fine," she says with a snicker. "I won't flirt with anyone until the wedding is over." They laugh, but Santos doesn't make a sound. "A guy like you probably has a girlfriend."

There go my cheeks again. When I look up, Santos dons a frustratingly blank expression. I'm not a kid anymore, so it's time to tell the truth. "No, no girlfriend. Or boyfriend. We're an inclusive resort, but despite my predilection for two genders, I'm not seeing anyone. Besides, I don't have time to date." I force a chuckle and fortunately, the others nod along. If they want to pull out due to homophobia, that's their deposit to forfeit.

"Gretchen, leave him alone," Santana says. "Try this strawberry shortcake and tell me what you think."

"Fine," Gretchen replies.

As they dig in, I pick up the large tray. "I'll be back in a few minutes. I think your appetizers may be ready." I bow and glance at Santos. While the others dig in, he eyes me with that same curiosity as always. Now that I know he was never bullying me, his looks carry a whole different meaning, but of what, I'm not sure. All I know is I need to move past the fact that his beard makes me want to rub my cheek all over his handsome face.

I have a job to do. Shiba's Seaside needs me.

The tasting goes smoothly, if I do say so myself. Afterward, I take the quartet back out onto the pool deck where one of our bartenders is waiting for them. He has a whole slew of drinks prepared, and later, the poolside band will audition for them. I thank the heavens my entertainment staff is here for our VIP guests.

With my short downtime, I gobble up a snack and use the restroom to freshen myself up. Now that the lunch rush is over and the tasting is settling down, my self-consciousness is kicking in. I gaze at myself in the mirror and notice how messy my black side-bangs are. Santos saw me like this? He probably thought I looked like trash.

Not that I care what he thinks I look like. I just want to look attractive…in general. For the world. Google Earth photographs. Or just in case a Formula Q racecar driver walks into the resort. Those guys are hot. All this grooming is not for Santos Hand.

After running my fingers through my hair ten times, I straighten up my shirt and walk back out the door. The public restroom faces the lobby, and I need to pass through to get to the restaurant and the outdoor deck. We have multiple desk areas for check-in, massive flat-screen TVs for advertising, and small PCs for business use. All of these fixtures are juxtaposed with classic New England interior design, complete with brown-and-gold bookshelves. While I've donated most of the books on the wall from my personal collection over the years, almost no one has chosen to read our stock of hardcovers.

Until now. "Santos," I whisper to myself. The handsome jock stands in the lobby reading, and the sunlight, once again, frames him like a halo. The Handyman was so popular in high school, but I get why the girls liked him. He may be bald now, but I'd venture to say he's gotten hotter over the years.

No one is manning the front desk—seriously, where are Mom and Dad?—but how can I care? This gorgeous man from my past is reading one of my books. Santos has always been attractive, but there's something very sexy about a guy or girl enjoying a book in public. Try as I might to ignore him, I can't resist approaching him to pick his brain about what he's reading.

He doesn't notice me until I'm two paces to his left. I catch the book's cover and smile.

"I haven't actually read that one yet."

He startles. "N…N-Natie. The…um…books were out here, and…" He waves his hand around, and I snicker.

"It's cool, man. This isn't a museum; you can touch whatever you want." I gulp at my accidental innuendo. "The books, I mean." We chuckle, and I look away. No one's in the lobby, so it's just Santos, myself, and shelves of literary goodness.

It's the first time we've been alone since that apologetic afternoon a month ago. I said we could be friends, so it's time for me to start acting like it. "No one ever checks them out. I thought it would be a cute little bonus for guests."

"You came up with this?" He looks at the shelves, and I step closer to him. We're nearly shoulder to shoulder, and I hadn't realized I'm almost his height.

"Yeah. We had the space, so I offered my collection. In actuality, it was a way for me to fulfill my book-hoarding tendencies and get away with it." We laugh again, and I'm struck by how pretty Santos's smile is. I try to shake my head of any crazy ideas of crushing on The Handyman himself. "I love that series."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I've been meaning to read this one." I point at the paperback he's holding. "Buying books and letting them gather dust isn't a crime, I swear." We share another laugh, and then he puts the book back and pulls out the neighboring title.

"Have you read this one?"

"Yeah," I reply. I peer at the cover and smile at the memory. "Monsters and men finding romance at a university filled with shifters. What more could a nerd like me want?"

He chortles. "That sounds splendid. I'll read anything paranormal."

Before I can second-guess myself, an intriguing thought slips from my mouth. "Do you want to borrow it?"

Santos eyes me like I just yelled at him in Japanese. My smile fades and I add, "It's no big deal. It's not like anyone's gonna miss it anyway."

"B-b-but it's yours," he says.

I shrug. "I would love to have someone to chat books with. My friends don't really read."

He holds the book in his hand almost reverently. "But what if I run away or drop your book in the ocean or something?"

I snort. "Are you going to take care of this book if I loan it to you?" Santos nods. "Then it's settled. You'd be doing me a favor. I want to be able to chat about it. Meanwhile…" I pull out the initial book he picked up. "It gives me a reason to get started on this one."

"You really don't mind?"

"No. I trust you, Santos." When I look up, he's studying me, but for what, I'm not sure.

"I…I guess it could be fun…"

I grin and tap his shoulder with the novel. "I think it will be, too. I want to know what you think."

"Very well," he mutters. His soft expression of fondness makes me feel like a real friendship is blooming between us. Before I can do something ridiculous like hug him, the bridal party walks in.

They're chatting animatedly, and Santos and I dart away from each other. I lead Wayne and Santana toward the front desk while they gush about the live band. Before I get far, the last thing I hear is Gretchen asking, "Ooh, what you got there, Mr. Hand?"

The idea of Santos Hand reading a book― my book―and talking to me about it excites me in ways I haven't felt in years.