Page 162 of Summers at the Saint
“I think she’s starting to like me,” Whelan said, scratching the dog’s long, silky ears. He kissed Traci lightly. “Obviously, she believes your fortune cookie, even if you don’t.”
Traci glanced over her shoulder, toward the kitchen door. “I’ve got one of my employees staying here, Whelan. This doesn’t seem… appropriate.”
“Come on, Traci. You heard Felice, she’s taking her pain meds and going to bed. She’s not going to be peeping out the window at us. And even if she did, who would she report us to? Her supervisor, which is you?”
“Technically, her direct supervisor is Charlie Burroughs. Who, as of today, is no longer an employee of the Saint.”
“You’re deliberately changing the subject again,” Whelan said.
She took his hand in hers. “Just give me a little time, please? To deal with all of this?”
Whelan shook his head. “You, of all people, should know tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, to any of us. I’m attracted to you, and I think the feeling is mutual. Why shouldn’t we act on that? Why should we wait? Why should we have regrets?”
“You’re right,” Traci admitted. “You’re absolutely right. I want this.” She grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled his face closer, resting her forehead against his. “I want you, Whelan, in the world’s worst way.” She kissed him, to demonstrate just how much she wanted to take things to the next level.
Pressed tightly between the two bodies, Lola wriggled and barked in protest.
“Shut up, please,” Whelan whispered, his lips tickling her ear.
She drew back. “Excuse me?”
“I meant the dog, not you.”
Whelan wrapped his arms around Traci’s neck and pulled her closer. “We’ll be very quiet. Very discreet.”
“The guest bedroom is right next to my room,” Traci pointed out.
He was kissing her neck, running his hands up under her shirt. “If only you knew someone who owned a hotel, quite nearby.”
Traci gasped as his thumb traced lazy circles around her nipple. “God no,” she gasped.
“‘God no, don’t touch me like this’?” he asked, lowering his head to her breast.
“God no, we are not checking into a room at the Saint. Can you imagine if word got out that Mrs. E was shacked up there with… a man?”
“Who cares?” He pushed her blouse off one shoulder and started unbuttoning it.
She heard her phone ringing from within the kitchen and pushed his hand away.
“Let it go to voice mail,” Whelan urged. “We’re busy here.”
“Wait,” she said, cocking her head. “Let me see who’s calling.”
“Bonaventure County sheriff’s office,” the caller ID voice intoned.
She jumped up. “I have to take this.”
“Mrs. Eddings? This is Wynnton Coyle over in Bonaventure. Thought you’d like to know that your general manager, Charlie Burroughs, was in an accident tonight over in Wayne County.”
“What happened?”
“He tried to outrun a state trooper. Was going nearly a hundred miles an hour when his car left the road and hit a utility pole. The trooper says your man sustained some pretty serious head injuries.He’s being life-flighted to the emergency room down in Jacksonville. The woman who was in the vehicle with him, Marcie something, has some fractured ribs and a broken femur. They’re treating her at the hospital in Jesup.”
“Is he… going to make it?”
“Don’t know,” Coyle said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
She disconnected and looked up to see Whelan walking back into the kitchen with the half-full wineglasses in hand. Lola trotted close behind.
