This was where a normal person might’ve said something cool. “Hi, I’m here to save your life and revolutionize your cleaning department.” But nope, my tongue decided to take a vacation.

  “Cameron Locker. I’m the new housekeeper. Uh, staff quarters?” I awkwardly held out my hand then immediately wondered if hotel people shook hands. He took it anyway. His palm was warm. Mine was sort of clammy, and holy hell, I probably crushed his hand like I was desperate.

  He nodded, and for one panicked second, I thought he was going to tell me I’d been replaced already. “Gabe Corran,” he said. “Front desk. Welcome to Diamond Peak, Cameron.”

  He said my name in a way that made me want to hear him say it again, which was embarrassing, so I focused on the countertop instead. It probably had more polish than my entire wardrobe. “Thanks. Sorry I tracked in half of, uh, the parking lot.”

  Gabe cracked a smile, faint but kind of devastating. “That’s what the mats are for.” He paused like he was deciding something. “You want to see your room?”

  “Yes. Please. Unless you have a time machine and can send me back to five minutes ago so I can wear literally anything else.”

  He almost laughed. Or at least, his mouth twitched. “You look fine.” He angled his head toward the side hallway. “Staff quarters are this way.”

  I fumbled with my bag and followed. My steps echoed off the tile. Someone had hung more garland above the doorframes, and it looked like a box of red bows had exploded, which was kind of festive, if you had a thing for ribbons.

  Past the lobby, the hallways became narrower and the lighting dropped several notches. He led me through a maze of turns until we were in Staff Only territory, which was basically “less holiday, more electrical outlets.” There were a few maintenance carts in the corridor, and somewhere distant there was the distinct hum of vacuuming. I tried not to think about the fact I’d never worked in an actual hotel before. Maid service, sure. Dorm cleaning. But this was a step up, if the corridor was any indication.

  Gabe opened a door with a key he pulled from his pocket, and we were in a plain, white-walled room, which was, honestly, better than some apartments I’d seen. There was one twin bed, a battered dresser, and sheets that looked fresh, which counted for a lot.

  “You’ll share the bathroom at the end of the hall,” Gabe said, sounding apologetic but not really. “Wi-Fi password’s on the back of the door.”

  “Free Wi-Fi? I might never leave,” I joked, immediately regretting it. Entirely possible that sounded too eager.

  He raised an eyebrow, not unkindly. “Let me know if you need anything.” The way he said it, it didn’t sound like he was just being polite. Then he was gone, leaving a faint waft of his cologne in the air, cedar and something crisp.

  I sank onto the bed, duffel still gripped in a death-hold. My heart was pounding like I’d run a marathon, when all I’d done was trudge through snow and meet an attractive guy with undeservedly nice hair. Even my fingers felt twitchy.

  This was it. I had a roof over my head. A job. My own bed, even if it creaked when I sat on it. I wasn’t about to get sentimental, but it was a relief, like I’d been holding my breath for three weeks and someone had finally told me I could breathe. Not sure why, but the thought of seeing Gabe again made my face heat like a kettle left on the burner too long.

  I unpacked the essentials. Hoodie, which I put on. Phone charger. My one pair of half-decent shoes. The rest could stay in the duffel for now.

  The hum of nerves wouldn’t go away. I sat there, hands in my lap, staring at the wall, and made an executive decision. I was not going to be the housekeeper who hid in his room because he was terrified of new people. Nope. Not giving them that story for the Christmas party. Cameron Locker, nervous twink, had arrived.

  * * * *

  The hotel was already halfway to a Christmas fever dream. Everyone was prepping for the big party tomorrow—the Diamond Peak Christmas Gala, which sounded like something out of reality TV. People in the lobby strung lights around pillars, hooked ladders to the ceiling, and barked orders that would’ve terrified the old me. But maybe the new me would just…fake it till he made it.

  I ducked out of my room, trying to look casual. If anyone noticed I had no clue where I was going, they were polite enough not to comment.

  From across the lobby, I saw Gabe was still at the front desk, typing something on a laptop. He didn’t look up right away, so I had the luxury of staring. Maybe it wasn’t the healthiest habit, but it was better than doom-scrolling Instagram. He looked like he belonged in a different, cooler, more expensive version of this job.

  Taking a slow, deep breath, I moved closer. He looked up, watching me approach.

  The heat told me I had a little flush on my cheeks, so I ducked my head and focused on the fake marble countertop. “Hi. I, uh, didn’t get lost. Probably a record.”

  He arched a dark brow. “Congratulations. Kitchen’s over there, if you want coffee.”

  That was unfair. He had no way of knowing my tragic backstory with coffee, which involved getting fired from a barista gig for spilling a venti Americano into the manager’s lap. He shouldn’t have grabbed my ass. I stood by my actions.

  “Coffee would save my life.”

  It felt like I was still wearing Rudolph’s nose. The temperature outside was no joke.

  He led the way. I tried not to stare at his shoulders, but my eyes refused to obey my brain. I had no business drooling over my boss, no matter how gorgeous he was. Where would I find another gig that also offered a roof over my head? By a complete miracle, I’d landed this one, and I didn’t need anything to jeopardize it, including me.

  The kitchen wasn’t busy yet, but it looked like it could turn into a war zone at any moment. A couple of staffers in red shirts were slicing fruit and arguing about whether peppermint bark was an actual dessert. I thought it was candy but doubted they wanted my underqualified opinion.

  I parked myself by the Keurig and tried not to look totally out of place.

  Gabe poured black coffee for himself and offered me options. “This one’s peppermint. The other’s hazelnut. Unless you want decaf, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

  “Hazelnut’s fine. Thanks.” I took the cup and pod and tried to look like I knew what I was doing. “So. Tomorrow’s party is for hotel guests, right?”

  He nodded, then leaned his hip against the counter. “And local celebs. A few social media types. Place’ll be swamped.”

  The word “swamped” made me break out in a cold sweat. Lots of people. Lots of noise.

  Gabe seemed to read the panic on my face. “First day can be rough, but you’ll get the hang of it. You’re not the first rookie.”

  That wasn’t comforting. Knowing you had a hotel job and actually seeing the enormity of it made me want to hide in my room until it was over. “You’re right. New job jitters.”

  He looked at me like he knew I was downplaying it. I was. I needed this job desperately, despite my anxiety. I was just a fun ball of frantic nerves.

  Tomorrow was going to be a disaster.

  We stood in silence, sipping coffee. The staffers in the kitchen were prepping like Olympic athletes, and I was suddenly very aware that I probably had a marshmallow-shaped smudge of whipped cream on my jacket. Just as I was about to wipe at it, Gabe handed me a napkin.

  “Cream,” he said, lips twitching.

  “I might be a lost cause.” I mopped my spill.

  He shrugged, and I felt his eyes on me. Watching me. “Nothing wrong with being new. Everyone has a first day in their past.”

  That seemed optimistic. I liked it. Gabe didn’t talk much, but when he did, he made it count. I tried to steal a glance at him, noting those broad shoulders and the way his jaw flexed, but I looked away so fast when he turned his head, I nearly ran into a wall.

  One second I was making a kamikaze move toward the wall, and the next Gabe’s hand shot out and landed on my sleeve, catching my arm. I stopped just before the part where I split my nose open on the door frame.

  My dignity shriveled on the spot.

  “Whoa,” he said.

  My brain hadn’t gotten the memo to update its social software for awkward moments yet, so I blurted out, “Sorry. Momentum issue. Basic physics.”

  More like basic Cameron.

  His mouth almost curved, and for a second, it looked like he would let go, but then his thumb pressed gently into the fabric of my hoodie. “You okay?”

  I managed a sound that didn’t really count as a word, more of a strangled “mm-hmm,” and then he let go. My arm could still feel the ghost of his grip, which was unfair. I’d barely known the guy an hour, and my thoughts were already running the crush playbook. Embarrassing.

  “Yeah. I’m usually more coordinated than an inflatable tube man. Usually.”

  “Ready for the ten-cent tour?”

  Ten cents was about all I had to my name. I nodded, tried not to trip over my own shoes, and followed.

  He led the way down a service corridor lined with buckets, flower arrangements, and bags of rock salt that seemed to mock my earlier parking-lot debacle.

  Gabe’s stride made it look easy, and I tried to match his pace, pretending I was someone who walked with purpose. But that flew out the window when I nearly tripped over a wet-floor sign. I nearly faceplanted but caught myself with a weird, penguin-waddle hop.

  I was clumsier than usual. Gabe’s presence was the culprit.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I saw his mouth twitch. “Watch your step.”

  “I’m field-testing gravity,” I muttered.

  The laughter was silent, but his eyes squinted just a little at the corners. It felt oddly satisfying to make him smile. “Basic physics.”

  He led me past a staff break room. There were two people inside, both engrossed in their phones. A half-eaten box of donuts sat on the table, just out of reach. My stomach did a wistful little flip. Maybe later.

  We reached the kitchen. Even through the doors you could smell roasted coffee, vanilla, and something rich and spicy that made my stomach remember it hadn’t been fed since Taco Bell in a gas station five hours ago.

  Gabe hesitated, hand on the push-bar of the door. “It’ll be busy,” he said.

  A part of me froze. Had he figured me out in less than an hour? Which made me wonder if he was already mentally flipping through job applicants for my replacement.

  “So long as nobody throws a fruitcake, I’ll be fine,” I said as my gaze slid toward the door. Were we talking a couple people baking some pies or full-on invasion of chaos? I just didn’t do well with a beehive of movement around me. A busy aisle in a grocery store made me breathe faster. There was just something about too many moving parts that caused my brain to search for the nearest exit.

  And if it couldn’t find one, my brain just “noped” out.

  He surprised me with a genuine smile. Pretty straight, white teeth appeared, somehow making him appear even more handsome. “You’d be surprised.”

  I prayed he was joking.

  He pushed open the door, letting me go first. I had about as much confidence as a marshmallow at a bonfire, but I squared my shoulders and powered through.

  Then wanted to immediately retreat.

  The kitchen sprawled out in front of me, bigger than any I’d seen outside a Food Network binge. Stainless steel was everywhere, miles of gleaming surfaces, and banks of LED track lights. I couldn’t keep up with all the motion. People were zipping in every direction, food equipment on full blast, pots boiling, pans sizzling. Orders were being barked from more than one person.

  My mind screamed for everyone to stop moving or at least slow down to a crawl. There was too much to process all at once.

  Gabe watched me closely, like he was trying to figure out why I froze at the sight of whipped cream being piped onto a thousand cookies.

  I tried to relax, tried to make my feet move, but I couldn’t get my brain to listen.

  A solid wall moved in front of me like the moon blocking out the sun.

  “The pastry chef left these for staff.” Gabe lifted a glass dessert plate and held it inches from my face.

  My eyes latched into it, a single point of focus instead of a million. My mind quieted instantly as I stared at a glossy chocolate bomb dusted with edible gold. There was a sugared cranberry on top and, I kid you not, a shard of brittle that looked like stained glass. Some people’s office snacks were vending machine trail mix. Here? It was edible architecture.

  I took it from him, wondering if there was a right way to eat something this fancy.

  I risked a bite.

  First, the outer shell broke with a crisp snap, and the inside was some kind of chocolate-mousse situation with a pop of raspberry jam. I died on the spot and was resurrected as I savored the incredible taste of heaven.

  Another bite made me giggle. Horrified, I pressed my lips together. Men didn’t giggle. It had been a lesson drilled into me.

  Gabe watched all of this. His mouth curved into an unguarded smile. “Good?”

  I had to swallow before I tried to answer. “I’m going to marry this sugar bomb.”

  He let out a low laugh that was a dangerous to my sanity. “A marriage that lasts until the last bite.”

  He let me finish the pastry, not rushing or appearing impatient. At least, not in a “let’s get moving” way. I tried to lick chocolate off my thumb without looking weird, which was scientifically impossible.

  “Next stop. Laundry,” Gabe said. “I’m going to partner you with Mia. Something tells me you two would get along.”

  Suddenly, we were at a steep little service hallway, all white doors and scuffs, the sort of corridor you only saw if you worked here or starred in a horror movie. Gabe punched in a code on the laundry door and held it open.

  Was the hotel afraid someone would steal all their dryer sheets? I’d just never seen a lock on a laundry room, let alone a keypad.

  Industrial whirring immediately hit my ears. I tumbled through, trying not to look like I’d never seen a laundry room before. This one was epic. Huge, humming machines lined both walls, stacked ceiling-high and vibrating in place. The air was hot and damp, full of that clean cotton smell, a hint of bleach, and a little bit of vanilla powder.

  On the folding table, a mountain of towels and linens threatened to become sentient. The place was an actual jungle gym of laundry bins and color-coded bottles. I nearly tripped on a small rolling cart, but managed to hop over it. Gabe’s hand shot out again, just in case, and then retreated like he hadn’t wanted me to see what he’d done.

  I wouldn’t object to him touching my arm again.

  There was a tiny woman manhandling a twin-sized duvet into the open jaws of a washer. She wore a sweatshirt that read “NOPE” in a glittery font and wore her dark hair in a messy ponytail.

  If the hotel had a house gnome, she’d be it. Less than five feet tall, hair a riot of black curls, she vibrated cheerful energy.

  Noticing us, she wiped her hands on her pants, beaming as she bounced on her heels. “You’re new!”

  I nodded. “I’m Cameron.”

  She offered maybe the world’s tiniest handshake. Her grip was surprisingly strong, and she seemed delighted about it. Maybe she collected handshakes. The next one would probably have to involve jazz hands just to compete.

  “Super nice to meet you.” Mia giggled, which made her seem like a real-life fairy. “I’m Mia. I do the laundry thing, but I also clean the honeymoon suites sometimes. But mostly I’m in here to keep towels from escaping.”

  Gabe leaned against the door and folded his arms, watching us like he was taking mental notes. I found myself sneaking glances in his direction once or twice, quickly looking away whenever our eyes met. He did that a lot. Watching me. It should’ve been intimidating, but there was something in his gaze I found reassuring, even if I couldn’t hold it.

  “You’ll love it here.” She pointed to one of the industrial washers and whispered, “It’s haunted. And don’t let the linen eat you.”

  Even my brain didn’t know what to do with that, so I just nodded. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “You’re welcome. If the dryer rattles, it means ghosts.”

  She clearly lived in her own world, but I liked her.

  A loud bang echoed from the hallway, startling us. I wished I’d played it cool. Instead, I did the startled-kitten freeze while Mia did a little hop, shooting me a wide-eyed look.

  “Sorry!” someone called out as the world shifted back to normal, but I caught Gabe’s eyes on me.

  “That was just the supply cart. Maintenance has a death wish for subtlety,” he said.

  I nodded, pretending my heart hadn’t tried to stage an escape through my ribcage.

  “Ready for your final stop?” he asked, motioning toward the hallway.

  Mia waved. “Nice meeting you! Don’t let him scare you.”

  Gabe looked affectionately at her, his smile amused. “Watch out for your ghosts.”

  “They’re not mine!” she squeaked.

  “Nice meeting you too,” I said.

  “You got questions?” Gabe asked as we wound back through the service corridors. His gait had confidence written all over it. He moved like he’d been born in a storm and trained by wolves.

  I’d had a few I’d wanted to ask, but my mind blanked out. “Not at the moment.”

  The lobby was quieter when they returned to the desk. Someone had finished attaching paper snowflakes to the ceiling, and the only noticeable sound was Christmas music drifting down from the speakers.

  “Tomorrow you have the early shift,” Gabe said, glancing at the roster taped to the side of the desk. “You’ll start on the third floor. The houseman will have your cart set up by the elevator.”

  Part of me wanted to invent a reason to stick around, just for another minute of his company, but my social batteries were blinking red.

  “Cool. I mean, not cool, the third floor, but cool that I have a cart. That’s a big step, career-wise.”