Caught Up In You (Indigo Royal Resort Book 2)
Caught Up In You
Indigo Royal Resort Book 2
Claire Hastings
Caught Up In You
Indigo Royal Resort Book 2
By Claire Hastings
Copyright © 2020 Cara N Knott
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. And any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, locales, or actual events is purely coincidental
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
ISBN 978-1-7348291-2-9 [ebook]
Cover Design by Cover Couture www.bookcovercouture.com
Edited by: Happy Editing Anns
Formatted by: Formatting Fairies
Printed in United States of America
https://www.clairehastingsauthor.com/
For Lisa -
For the little push, that lead to a big leap, and an even bigger landing. Thank you
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Can’t Fight This Feeling
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
Cullen Cruz was pissed.
Pissed about being on this trip. Pissed about sitting in this stupid airplane seat, even if it was first class. Pissed about how what was supposed to be his vacation had been turned into something other than relaxing.
But mostly he was pissed that after this vacation ended, he wasn’t returning to work. His days as a professional footballer seemed to be over. He knew he was “old” by any standard in any professional sport, but at thirty-eight he still felt like he had plenty to give the game. Apparently, every team in every league across the world seemed to disagree with him though.
Getting down to St. Thomas from Liverpool hadn’t been an easy trek these last couple of years. While he realized that he had the pick of anywhere in the world to go on holiday, there was something special about the Indigo Royal Resort that had kept him returning for the last ten years. His time down there was well worth the money he had to spend on a private flight.
Of course, he’d usually had a travel companion of some sort with him—whomever the flavor of the month had been in that moment, or if there wasn’t one, he’d find someone and talk her into joining him. Not that he ever heard any complaints from anyone about having to go to the Virgin Islands with a pro athlete via a private jet. This time, however, he was flying solo. There hadn’t been anyone for months—not that the media hadn’t attached him to all sorts of women, and even one dude a couple of months back—throughout all his contract drama. At one point, when it was clear he wasn’t getting a new contract from anyone, he considered grabbing the first groupie he could find, but then he thought better of it. He needed this time to be alone. To be angry.
“Would you like anything else, Mr. Cruz?” the sweet, blonde flight attendant asked him. She stood maybe five feet five, even in her heels, and she batted her eyelashes like it was her job.
Although, he thought to himself, it kinda is…
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, nodding to her.
“Well, you just let me know if that changes!” She walked away slowly, swinging her hips as much as she could in the narrow aisle of the commercial jet.
That was just one more thing he was pissed off about; his agent insisted that he fly commercial this time around. It would lead to “better opportunities to be seen,” according to the man he had trusted with his career for the last twenty-four years. Oliver Smart was exactly that—smart. And after more than two decades together, he’d never steered Cullen wrong. Which is why when Oliver told him that he had rearranged his trip to St. Thomas—not only pushing it out a couple of months but extending it as well—so that he could run a two-week skills clinic for local kids, he didn’t push back too much. He knew he needed all the good press he could get right about now.
“So, you are him?” the guy in the aisle seat to his right asked. Cullen simply nodded, turning to look out the window to his left, hoping the guy caught the hint. Unfortunately, he didn’t.
“Is what I saw on Facebook true? You’re really retiring?” he prodded.
The guy’s question felt like salt being rubbed in a fresh wound. Being cut from Liverpool FC had been a serious punch to the gut and to his ego. His contract still had a full year left on it, with an option for two more after that. When he was called in to see the team’s chairman and manager and informed that they thought it was time for him to “retire,” he had felt like someone pulled the rug out from under him. They assured him it wasn’t personal, nor was it about the financial obligations of his contract. After all, they would pay him out for it. Not that he was all that worried about money—he already had more of it than he knew what to do with. No, this was about making room on the team for the next generation of players, giving the young guys a chance to shine. They told him they were worried about him somehow getting injured to the point where he wouldn’t be able to enjoy retirement properly. Both men worked hard to sell him on the idea that this was a good thing, that he could have his money and enjoy the freedom of retirement too. But he could read between the lines and he heard them loud and clear—he was old and no longer worth the roster spot.
“Well, if you saw it on Facebook, it must be, right?” Cullen answered in a sarcastic tone. “We’ll see what happens after the off-season.”
“Cool, cool,” the guy responded. “By the way, you totally could have taken the guy in the pub.”
Cullen had to stop himself from rolling his eyes at the comment. The news about being cut had hit him hard, and he could admit now that he hadn’t handled it the best that he could have. He’d worked hard to try and stay out of the media as much as possible, no matter how much the tabloids had goaded him with rumors and other made-up nonsense about his personal life. Still, he knew damn well that the news that the team and he were “amicably parting ways” as he “considered retirement” would be public information almost as soon as he left the chairman’s office, and that lying low to deal with his emotions would be the smart thing to do. However, smart was what Oliver was for, and in that moment the only thing he wanted was
a drink. Hours later he’d found himself at the local pub, with the bartender holding him back from delivering a returning blow to some jackass. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually hit the guy, or that the other guy had started it. Some damn paparazzi, not to mention a bunch of mobile phone cameras, had shots of him with his hands balled into fists and raring to go. Those photos were up on social media faster than Cullen could blink, and any chance he’d thought he might have to talk his way back onto the Liverpool pitch was gone.
After the pub incident, the media ran with the idea that Cullen had an anger management issue and went searching for any picture they could find of him scowling or angry. He’d never been much of a natural smiler, so it wasn’t a difficult task for them. It didn’t matter that no one—not him, not the other guy from the pub, not the team, not even Oliver on his behalf—had commented on either him not returning to the team come the start of the season or the non-brawl. The media did what they wanted.
He could hear Oliver’s voice as clearly as if he were in the chair next to him right now saying, “You need some good press right about now, Cruz, so I adjusted your trip down to the islands into more of a working holiday.”
So here he was, stuck on a commercial flight from New York to Miami, sitting next to this Chatty Cathy before catching yet another flight down to St Thomas. With layovers, it was taking almost two days to get down there, and Cullen was more than over it. It’s not that he thought himself better than the masses, or that he couldn’t be bothered with the fans—in fact he rather liked seeing the reactions on a kid’s face when they put two and two together, realizing who he was—but after multiple flights and hours of layovers, all in the same clothes he’d been wearing for days, he was plain and simple worn out.
“Some things just aren’t worth it,” he simply commented.
“Very true.”
Cullen nodded again and tried the window move one more time. Thankfully this time the guy took the hint and put his headphones back on. Only forty-five more minutes on this flight, followed by a three-hour layover and one more four-hour flight. Then he’d be at the Indigo Royal, and with any luck, he’d get to see her.
The Indigo Royal Resort’s newest hire in the housekeeping department seemed to zone in and out as Leona walked her through the process of how the whole system worked. The young girl, Gena, seemed a lot more interested in picking at her nail polish a few moments ago, until Leona scolded her, than she ever would in knowing the proper steps and procedures of cleaning a room when a room was occupied versus not.
“Questions so far?” Leona asked the girl.
Gena looked at her, shaking her head no despite the overwhelmed look in her eyes. “Not that I can think of.”
Leona remembered what it was like to be this girl. After all, she’d started working at the hotel when she was fifteen. Her mother had decided that if she didn’t get a job and learn some responsibility that she’d end up “in trouble”—her mother’s not-so-secret code for pregnant—and ruin her life. So she’d turned to the uncles of Leona’s best friend Drea Miller, who were the owner/operators of the resort, and begged them to give her a job.
"Don’t be afraid to speak up if you think of any. It’s a lot of information to take in all at once,” she said, trying her best to sound comforting.
The lady who had been the head of housekeeping back then, Beverly, had told her the same thing when she had taken Leona on a very similar tour of the grounds, explaining to her the difference between standard hotel rooms and suites in Barracuda Tower, the apartment style multi-room suites in the Black Velvet and the Purple Rain, and the four exclusive beachfront bungalows known as The Villas. The bungalows, individually known as La Isla Bonita, Borderline, Lucky Star, and Vogue, were designed by Drea’s late mother and aunt, who had passed away in a kitchen accident when the resort was being renovated more than twenty-five years earlier. Even though they weren’t fully built when the sisters passed, Drea’s uncles had made sure to name each one after a Madonna song from The Immaculate Collection, which had been the sisters’ favorite album.
“So, you understand the layout of the resort, right?” Leona asked. “Just past the pool are the three main guest buildings. Barracuda Tower, which has twelve floors, and just over three hundred basic hotel rooms and suites. Then just next to the tower are the Black Velvet and the Purple Rain, which only have multi-room suites. Past the guest rooms is The Casbah bar, which also hosts the night club on Friday nights. If you continue walking past the bar and down a little closer to the beach, you’ll eventually find The Villas before hitting a stand of trees that lead to the Big House and Drea’s cottage.”
“Got it,” Gena said.
“Today, we’re only going to look at the bungalows from afar. Guests who spend the insane amount of money that it costs to rent these for a week do so because they are looking for space and privacy, and as staff we make sure to respect that,” Leona continued on her tour. Gena wouldn’t be tasked with caring for those anytime soon, anyway. Unlike Leona, who would be spending plenty of time in La Isla Bonita in the coming weeks. Thinking of which, she’d better hurry this tour up and get Gena paired off with Carmella or someone for the rest of the training, so she could do one last check of La Isla Bonita to make sure that everything was all set.
Leading Gena back down toward her office, she took the opportunity to drive a few additional key points home. “We take exceptional pride in our rooms and toiletries that we provide for our guests. We include bath salts, toothbrush kit, loofah, and a hairbrush, on top of the standard vanity kit—shower cap, shampoo, conditioner, lotion, and shower gel—in all rooms. In the more premium suites, we also provide deodorant, personal wet wipes, floss, and a sewing kit. Make sure to restock every day, even if you know that all the guest did was take the item and toss it in their suitcase.”
“Do people really do that?” Gena asked.
“You’d be amazed at what you will find in these rooms,” she said as she pushed open the door that had a little black and white placard reading “Leona Filipe, Housekeeping” on it. She pointed to the list posted on the wall just adjacent to her desk. “We keep a top ten list for a reason.”
Gena looked at her with wide eyes, almost too afraid to look at the list. Just as she started to glance over at it, Carmella walked into the room.
“Ready for me?” she asked Leona.
“We sure are! Gena is going to shadow you for the rest of the day,” Leona answered. Turning back to Gena, she said, “Now remember, you’re invisible. I don’t say that to be condescending, but to remind you that we are like ghosts. We make sure things are seen to, but that we are not seen doing them. Guests don’t pay to have someone underfoot and in their way. Just follow Carmella’s lead—she won’t let you down.”
The two women exited her office, giving her a quick moment to herself. Drawing in a deep breath, Leona tried to calm her nerves and quell the nervous energy running through her. She’d known this visit was coming for months. It’d even gotten pushed out by about six weeks, giving her more time to stress over it. The deep breaths weren’t working—if anything they were frustrating her more—so she grabbed the folder containing his list of “requirements” and marched out of her office toward The Villas.
Making her way down Electric Avenue, which was what they called the little path that led from the rest of the resort down to the private area where the Villas resided, Leona tried once more to calm herself down. This was without a doubt her least favorite two weeks of the year, and this year, it was a three-week visit. At least this year the majority of his time would be spent off the resort.
La Isla Bonita was the biggest of the bungalows, at just over a thousand square feet, and sat at an almost ninety-degree angle from the other three structures. Where Vogue, Borderline, and Lucky Star sat along the coastline, La Isla Bonita was built so that part of it was on the beach and a portion of it was built on stilts over the water, resulting in a private porch off the back of the house. It wrapped a
round the ocean side and had a private ladder for guests to get in and out of the water. The living room housed a full couch and love seat plus a glass coffee table that sat over a tempered glass cutout in the floor, allowing a view of the ocean. To the left of the living room was the bedroom—complete with walk-in closet and king bed—with a floor to ceiling window that looked out over the back of the bungalow to the vast ocean and continued into the massive bathroom adjacent to the bedroom.
Leona really did love this little house. Once, for their sixteenth birthdays, Drea’s uncles allowed the girls to stay in it for a weekend. They had a blast just hanging out on the back deck, jumping into the ocean, and taking turns soaking in the tub. Ever since that weekend, she’d pictured staying here with a lover—the two of them taking a bath together, getting tangled up in the sheets, and going skinny-dipping off the deck. But then she would remind herself of Cullen Cruz and that night from ten years ago, and all those wonderful daydreams were tarnished.
I can do this, she thought to herself. It’s just three weeks. Three weeks cleaning up after a man I can’t stand…
Chapter Two
The car that Oliver hired to taxi Cullen around while he was in St. Thomas reeked of the overpowering smell of “new car.” Not the actual new car smell, but the fake, chemical-ridden air freshener “new car” smell. The full-size sedan town car was clean and comfortable—and didn’t appear all that old, really—but the driver had obviously gone to great lengths in order to make it seem impressive to the professional athlete. Truth be told, the town car was much more of a luxury vehicle than Cullen had expected. The interior was all leather, had heavy-duty rubber floor mats, and even had a divider between him and the driver for privacy.