Their Last Resort Read Online R.S. Grey

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80052 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)

Biting banter is all they know. But messy feelings have a way of coming to the surface in this beachside romance.

Paige Young and Cole Clark are polar opposites. A world traveler since birth, Paige loves to lead activities for guests at a luxury island resort in Turks and Caicos. From bingo nights to cliffside hikes, Paige is up for anything. Cole, meanwhile, prefers his number-crunching desk job. He’s the assistant director at the resort—stiff and meticulous. He’s so by the book that he keeps the book. In his desk drawer.

They’re perfectly aligned in one way, though—their ability to drive each other crazy. Every day brings a fresh battle of wits. They’re rivals, archnemeses…and they’re definitely never going to talk about that one time they kissed. Ha ha. Nope!

But when Paige finds out that Cole has been ordered to fire her on the same day a hurricane threatens their little slice of paradise, it’s clear the game is over.

At odds, in peril, and forced to shelter in place together, these two enemies might finally have to confront their true feelings. (You know, the ones hidden under all those withering looks.)

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One


I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.

I just have to keep repeating the mantra.

There is a lot to like about working at this resort. Siesta Playa is known for its crystal clear water, white-sand beaches, luxury accommodations, and . . . grotesquely spoiled tourists, who all ascribe to the belief that their year’s worth of credit card points entitles them to nothing short of royal treatment.

I’m staring at one now while she rambles on and on about how I’m ruining her vacation and, naturally by extension, her life. She’s standing on the other side of the short desk, spitting venom. Her fury is so fierce, the little veins in her forehead look like they might burst. Her mood is in stark contrast to her bright Hawaiian dress and kitschy conch earrings. The glasses she’s sporting on her head carry a little slogan, one glittery word positioned over each eye: ISLAND TIME!

Now I see why her husband is cowering behind her on wobbly knees, searching for a spine that she has long since quashed.

Sir, blink three times if you need help.

“Mrs. Daugherty, I’m so very sorry.”

For the record, this is my fourth apology, but it gets ignored like the first three.

“You’re sorry? What am I supposed to do with a sorry? I flew all the way here from Miami, y’know.”

That’s about a two-hour trip, runway to runway. With the way she emphasizes this point, you’d think she’d just backpacked here from a Tibetan mountaintop.

“We’re so glad you came all this way, and I understand why you’re upset.”

No, we’re not—no, I don’t.

“I apologize again, on behalf of the entire resort team.”

Actually, we all collectively want to banish you from the premises.

“And, of course, we’re happy to offer you and your husband excursion vouchers—or would you two enjoy a private beach dinner instead? Courtesy of the resort, of course.”

Giving in like this—rolling over and taking it—is resort policy. Just give the high-maintenance sociopaths what they want in order to defuse the situation before the other guests (the ones whose parents loved them) notice. I hate it.

In quick succession, she pounds her pointer finger down on the desk like it’s a woodpecker made out of Vienna sausages. “I can eat dinner on the beach anywhere. I want to see some damn whales! Like I was promised!”

One of the excursions offered here at Siesta Playa is a guided marine-life tour where guests have the opportunity to see dolphins, reef sharks, sea turtles, and potentially whales. During the high season, from January through early April, humpback whales swim through the Turks Island Passage and give birth at Salt Cay. But seeing as how it’s mid-August . . . the whales are otherwise occupied elsewhere, doing whale things. A fact made abundantly clear to any of our guests who might have their sights set on seeing a majestic humpback this time of year, including Mrs. Daugherty.

“I. Want. Whales,” she demands again, enunciating each word like a grown-up version of Veruca Salt.

Her husband, temporarily abandoning his attempt to shrink into oblivion, speaks up with a wobbly voice. “Beatrice, I think if maybe we just—”

She makes no move to address him. Her focus stays pinned solely on me. “No, Mark. Don’t. This is ridiculous! You know what?” Her fingers are aimed at me, mere inches from my face, wagging back and forth. “I want to speak to your manager. Now.”

I knew this request was coming. This righteous appeal to mythical authority is the last gasp of all frustrated complainers. I’d bet anything that on her deathbed she’ll cry out for Jesus—not for comfort or mercy but because she’d like to complain to his dad about the poor service she got on earth.

I’m forced to radio for someone, except the person that shows up is the absolute last someone I want to see right now.

There’s no need for me to turn around to confirm my suspicions when he walks up behind me. He might as well be accompanied by a theme song filled with deep, ominous organs. Dun dun dunnnn.

He’s a regular in Mordor.

The devil’s dinner guest.

Voldemort’s pen pal.

Cole Clark is neither my manager nor my friend; he’s a thorn in my side. His mere presence spikes my blood with adrenaline. My hands form tiny fists at my sides.

“Hello. How can I help you?” he asks over my shoulder.

I straighten up, trying to add inches to my height. I hate his stupid bones and the fact they allow him to tower over me.

“Who are you?” She’s already losing some of the condescension in her tone. Women tend to do that around Cole. Soften, swoon, go a little weak in the knees. I’ve never understood why.

“I’m Cole Clark, the assistant director of operations at Siesta Playa.”

“Yes, he’s just the assistant director,” I stress. “You’ll want to compla—I mean, speak with Todd Weaver. He’s the real head honcho around here.”