What kind of hotel doesn’t have a name?
The Hotel Manager, an all-new enemies to lovers, grumpy-sunshine, standalone romance from USA Today bestselling author C. Hallman, is available now!
Everything about this place is off.
The odd location. The silent staff. The elite clientele.
All I’m certain of is that I have to get out of here.
Until I meet him.
The hotel manager.
He’s grumpy, impatient, and never ever leaves the hotel.
It’s clear from the look in his eyes that he hates me.
Beautiful, raw, demanding.
I’m drawn to him like a helpless moth to an all-consuming flame.
I just hope I can get away before I get burned.
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Her fingers run awkwardly over my back, poking me more than giving me a massage. Her feet shovel nervously around me, and I take notice of how old and worn out her sneakers are. Something is off here. The company we hire is a luxury brand with highly qualified and well-paid massage therapists.
Alarm bells go off in my head. I act before thinking about it more. My body moves on its own, flipping over, I sit up. Grabbing her wrist with my left, I give it a hard tug toward me. She gasps and stumbles forward. Quickly, I wrap my free hand around her slender throat, holding her in place right in front of me. Her fingers circle my hand on her neck, trying to loosen the pressure I put on her airway.
“Who sent you?” I grit through my teeth.
Her chocolate brown eyes are wide in fear. Her smooth, blemish-free skin pales, and her full pink lips are slightly parted. The only color in her face is the hue of red over her high cheekbones, and the tiny freckles scattered over her small button nose.
She is as beautiful as she is annoying. Annoying because I was looking forward to a relaxing massage, and now, I have to deal with this intruder.
I normally don’t let my guard down so quickly, but there is an innocence in her eyes that has me loosening my fingers around her neck. She isn’t a threat. There is no darkness in her eyes, no deceiving thoughts hiding behind those long dark lashes, only fear and confusion.
Frozen in place, she doesn’t move an inch, doesn’t try to get away from me. Yet, I keep a tight grip on her wrist, not wanting to let her go.
She might not be dangerous, but she can’t be trusted. She is wearing the same Elite Massage shirt the other massage therapists usually wear, but there is no way she was sent by the company.
“What’s your name?”
“Teagan Bennett,” she whispers softly.
I glance at the name stitched on the breast pocket of her shirt. “I didn’t know Teagan is short for Denise.”
She winces, squeezing her eyes shut with a frown as if to curse herself for telling me her real name. I, on the other hand, love it. I love that she is a bad liar and that she told me her real name instead of her fake one. Less work for me.
For more information about C. Hallman and her books, visit her website: https://www.authorchallman.com
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