Do Not Disturb (Resort Romances, #1) by Mary Billiter

Author:Mary Billiter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary romance, series, comedy, humor, romance, hotel, intrigue
Publisher: Hot Tree Publishing
Published: 2016-10-15T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Fog. If it stayed on top of the ocean, that would be fine. But fog wasn’t stationary. It moved from the ocean to the shore to the beach. Even that would be okay. But when fog found its way onto Pacific Coast Highway, it didn’t gradually weave onto the two-lane road like an oncoming car intersecting into traffic. Hell no. Fog banked itself onto the highway with the insistence of an annoying trucker that thought it owned the road simply because it drove the biggest vehicle on it. I hate fog. It surrounded Scarlett on all four sides, taunting me like a trucker. The only way to get away from it was to push past it. Add to it the ocean breeze from PCH carried salt in the moist air that clung to my windshields, making visibility even more of a nightmare.

“Carmen, I can’t thank you enough for driving, and I am so sorry its freakin’ freezing in here.” I rubbed my arms. “I got rear-ended today, which is why I’m having you drive me to Bogart’s house. He wanted me to drop off my car.”

The defroster was flipped to the highest setting, and hot air blasted against the front windshield, but it did nothing for my shattered back windshield. Cold air sneaked through the cracks, biting me on the back of my neck.

“It’s not a problem.” Carmen drove in the direction of Bogart’s subdivision. Another valet driver followed us in a hotel car.

“I don’t know if this is a good decision or not, but....” It neared the midnight hour, and Bogart would be getting home from work. At some point, I had to phone my parents and tell them the rest of my plans for the evening, which I didn’t even know. It was the only request they’d made when I moved back home.

“I don’t necessarily need to know what you’re doing,” my mother had said. “But if you’re not going to make it home, I do need a phone call so I won’t worry.”

I must have remembered her appeal last weekend when I phoned home. I couldn’t recall.

When Carmen turned in to the Pacific Crest subdivision, I couldn’t quite remember which house was his.

I palmed the passenger side floorboard and located Bogart’s garage door opener. I held it in my hand while Carmen slowly drove down the first street.

“Okay, it’s a two-story,” I said and hit the automatic window button. I leaned my head out of the side window as I canvassed the neighborhood.

Where the hell is it? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember which house was Bogart’s.

I squeezed the garage door opener in frustration.

“I think that’s it?”

Carmen whipped my car around and pulled up the emergency brake.

I pressed the garage door opener but the garage door didn’t open. I looked at Carmen. “I can’t remember his house.”

“I radioed Bogart before we left the property. He should be off his shift soon. Can I leave you here until he comes and gets you?”

I nodded. “I won’t drive.

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