Updated Nov 2, 2025 • ~9 min read
By the end of her first week, Layla had come to one unavoidable conclusion: Garrett Hawthorne hated her.
Or at least, he was doing an excellent impression of it.
“Ms. Rivera.” His voice cut through the morning briefing, sharp and precise. “The guest in suite 412 complained about the thread count in the bedding. How did that get past your quality check?”
Layla looked up from her notes, heat creeping up her neck as twelve pairs of eyes swiveled toward her. They were gathered in the executive conference room—all the department heads and management trainees—for the weekly operations meeting.
“I… I wasn’t aware there was an issue with suite 412,” she said carefully. “I completed my rotation in housekeeping yesterday, and all suites passed inspection.”
“Clearly not thorough enough.” Garrett didn’t even glance at her, his attention fixed on his tablet. “Guest satisfaction is our priority. Details matter, Ms. Rivera. I suggest you double-check your work in the future.”
Her cheeks burned. “Yes, sir.”
The meeting continued, but Layla couldn’t focus. This was the third time this week he’d called her out in front of everyone. The thread count issue, the lobby temperature being half a degree too warm, the coffee station running low on oat milk—all minor, fixable things that he somehow made sound like cardinal sins when delivered in that cool, detached voice.
Ms. Rivera. Never Layla. Always formal, always distant.
Like they were strangers.
Maybe that hurt most of all.
After the meeting, Layla gathered her things slowly, hoping to catch Garrett alone. But he was already gone, disappeared into his office before she could even stand up.
“Don’t take it personally.”
She turned to find Marcus, one of the senior operations managers, giving her a sympathetic smile. He was probably in his thirties, with kind eyes and an easy demeanor that had made him one of her favorite colleagues so far.
“Take what personally?” she asked, trying for casual.
Marcus lowered his voice. “Hawthorne. He’s been riding you pretty hard this week. But he does it to all the new hires. It’s his way of testing you, seeing if you’ll crack under pressure.”
Layla managed a weak smile. “Good to know.”
But as Marcus walked away, she wasn’t so sure. Because Garrett didn’t treat the other new trainee—a guy named Reed who started the same day—with the same icy formality. Reed got constructive feedback. Reed got patient explanations.
Layla got criticized in front of an audience.
She grabbed her coffee and headed for the door, determined to prove she could handle whatever he threw at her.
The day didn’t improve.
Layla was assigned to shadow the front desk during the afternoon shift, greeting guests and processing check-ins under the supervision of the desk manager, Avery. Everything was going smoothly until Garrett emerged from the back offices, making his rounds through the lobby.
She felt him before she saw him—that prickling awareness that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
“Ms. Rivera.” He appeared at the desk, immaculate in his charcoal suit, expression unreadable. “A word.”
Avery shot her a curious look but nodded for her to go.
Layla followed Garrett to a quiet corner of the lobby, her heart doing something stupid and complicated in her chest. This was the first time they’d been even remotely alone since that first day in his office.
He stopped by the windows overlooking the pool deck and crossed his arms, finally looking directly at her.
God, his eyes were intense. Gray and stormy and completely locked on hers.
“Your posture at the desk was too casual,” he said, voice low enough that no one else could hear. “This isn’t a college campus job. When you’re at that desk, you’re the face of this resort. Stand straight, shoulders back, project confidence.”
Layla blinked. “My posture?”
“Yes.”
“You came over here to critique my posture?”
His jaw tightened, that little muscle jumping again. “I came over here to ensure you understand what’s expected of you.”
Frustration bubbled up, hot and sharp. “I think I’ve got a pretty clear picture of your expectations, Mr. Hawthorne. You’ve made them very obvious.”
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, that she was pushing back.
“Have I?” He took a step closer, and suddenly the space between them felt charged, electric. “Then let me be even clearer. While you’re under my employ, you will maintain the highest professional standards. You will be impeccable in your work, your appearance, and your conduct. You will not give anyone—anyone—reason to question why you’re here. Understood?”
The emphasis on those words hit her like a slap.
“You think people will assume I got this job because of my dad,” she said quietly. “Because you know him.”
“I think,” Garrett said, voice dropping even lower, “that people talk. And I won’t have your reputation or this resort’s reputation compromised because of our… connection.”
Connection. The word hung between them, loaded with meaning.
“There is no connection,” Layla said, lifting her chin. “You made that perfectly clear. You’re my boss. I’m your employee. That’s all.”
“Good.” But he didn’t move away. If anything, he seemed closer, near enough that she could smell his cologne—something expensive and cedar-scented that made her head spin. “Then we understand each other.”
“Perfectly.”
They stared at each other, neither backing down, and Layla’s pulse thundered in her ears. She should step back. Should break eye contact. Should do something other than stand here drowning in the intensity of his gaze.
But she didn’t.
And neither did he.
“Your break ended three minutes ago,” Garrett finally said, his voice rougher than before. “Get back to work, Ms. Rivera.”
He walked away without another word, leaving her standing there with her heart racing and her hands trembling.
That evening, Layla stayed late to finish up reports in the staff office—a small room tucked behind the lobby with a few desks and computers for employees to use. Most people had gone home, and the resort had shifted into its quiet evening rhythm.
She was so focused on her screen that she didn’t hear anyone approach until a shadow fell across her desk.
Garrett stood in the doorway, jacket off and tie loosened, looking more rumpled than she’d ever seen him. He held a coffee cup in one hand, and there were tired lines around his eyes.
“You’re still here,” he said, not quite a question.
“Finishing up the weekly summary reports,” Layla replied, trying to ignore the way her stomach flipped at seeing him like this—less polished, more human. “I wanted to make sure they were perfect before submitting them.”
Something crossed his face. “You don’t have to—” He stopped himself, jaw working. “They’re not due until Monday.”
“I know. But I figured I should double-check my work.” She couldn’t keep the edge out of her voice. “Since details matter.”
Garrett’s eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, there was something raw in them that made her breath catch.
“Layla—” He started, then caught himself. Straightened. Went cold again. “Ms. Rivera. Don’t stay too late. Building locks at eleven.”
And just like that, the walls were back up.
“Understood, Mr. Hawthorne.”
He left without another word, but Layla sat frozen at her desk, staring at the empty doorway.
Because for just a moment—one brief, unguarded moment—he’d looked at her like he wanted to say something else entirely.
Like the distance between them was killing him too.
On Sunday, Layla’s phone rang while she was grocery shopping.
“Hey, sweetie!” Her dad’s voice boomed through the speaker, warm and familiar. “How’s the new job treating you?”
Layla’s grip tightened on her shopping cart. “It’s great, Dad. Really great.”
“That’s my girl. You know, I was thinking—I should come visit soon, see where you’re working. I bet the place is impressive.”
Her stomach dropped. “Oh, um, maybe wait a few weeks? I’m still getting settled, and—”
“Nonsense! I’m proud of you. Want to show you off a bit.” He chuckled. “Plus, I miss you. It’s been too quiet around here without you.”
Guilt twisted in her chest. She missed him too. But the thought of her dad showing up at the Oceanview Grande, running into Garrett, the two of them together while she stood there trying to act normal…
“How about I come home for a weekend instead?” she offered. “That way we can actually spend time together, not just a quick visit at my work.”
“Well, when you put it that way.” Her dad sounded pleased. “That’d be even better. Maybe you could come by in a couple weeks? I’ll fire up the grill, and we can invite Garrett over. He’s been asking about you.”
Her heart stuttered. “Has he?”
“Sure. He wanted to know how you were settling in at that new job. I told him you were killing it, obviously. That’s my kid.”
Layla closed her eyes, standing in the middle of the cereal aisle like an idiot.
Garrett had asked about her. Had pretended not to know exactly where she was working, exactly how she was doing.
Had lied to his best friend.
For her. Or for himself?
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Maybe in a couple weeks. That sounds good, Dad.”
After she hung up, Layla stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing.
This was so much more complicated than she’d thought it would be.
Because the worst part wasn’t Garrett’s coldness, or his criticism, or the way he maintained that rigid professional distance between them.
The worst part was the moments when that distance cracked.
When he looked at her like he was drowning and she was air.
When he said her name—just her name—like it hurt.
Those moments were dangerous.
And God help her, she wanted more of them.
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