Updated Nov 2, 2025 • ~9 min read
The supply room was much smaller than Layla remembered.
Or maybe it was just that Garrett’s presence made everything feel closer, tighter, impossible to escape.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he said, his voice echoing slightly in the narrow space. Metal shelves lined both walls, stocked with linens, toiletries, and cleaning supplies. The air smelled like lavender and bleach. “We’re just doing a spot check on the inventory logs. Last month’s numbers didn’t match up.”
Layla nodded, clutching her tablet like a lifeline. It was nearly nine PM on a Thursday, and she’d been about to leave when Garrett appeared in the staff office, asking if she could help with a quick inventory check.
She should have said no. Should have claimed she had plans, a headache, anything.
But the word “yes” had tumbled out before she could think better of it.
Now she was trapped in a ten-by-six supply room with the one man she was supposed to be maintaining professional distance from, and her heart was doing acrobatics in her chest.
“You start on that side,” Garrett gestured to the left wall. “Count the sheet sets—king, queen, full. I’ll handle the right side.”
“Got it.”
They worked in silence for the first few minutes, the only sounds their fingers tapping on tablets and the rustle of linens being counted. Layla tried to focus on the numbers, but she was hyperaware of every move Garrett made across the narrow aisle.
The way he rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing strong forearms.
The furrow between his brows when he concentrated.
The quiet sound of his breathing in the small space.
“How many king sets do you have?” he asked, not looking up.
“Uh—” Layla glanced at her tablet, realizing she’d lost count. Again. “Forty-two.”
“That matches mine for the opposite shelf. Good.” He moved further down the row, and Layla did the same, working her way toward the back of the room.
The space narrowed even more back here, where boxes of bulk toiletries crowded the walkway. Layla had to turn sideways to squeeze past a stack of towels, and when she looked up, Garrett was right there—close enough to touch.
He’d been reaching for something on the top shelf and had frozen mid-movement, arm extended above her head. They were inches apart, her back nearly against the shelving, him blocking her in completely without meaning to.
“Sorry,” she breathed, starting to move past him.
“No, I’ll—” He shifted at the same time, and suddenly they were even closer, his chest almost brushing hers.
Layla’s breath caught. This close, she could see the silver threading through his hair, could count the laugh lines around his eyes. Could feel the heat radiating off his body in the cool supply room.
Garrett’s jaw clenched, and his arm slowly lowered, but he didn’t step back.
Neither did she.
“This is—” His voice was rougher than usual. “The spacing in here is inefficient. I should talk to facilities about reorganizing.”
“Yeah,” Layla whispered, unable to look away from his eyes. They were so gray, like storm clouds. “Definitely inefficient.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “We should keep working.”
“We should.”
But neither of them moved.
The air between them felt electric, charged with something dangerous and thrilling. Layla’s pulse thundered in her ears, and she wondered if he could hear it, if he knew what he was doing to her just by standing there.
“Layla.” Her name was barely a whisper, rough and almost pained. “This crosses every line—”
“I know.”
“Your father would—”
“I know.”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, just for a second, and that one look sent heat flooding through her entire body.
Then he stepped back, the spell broken, and the air rushed back into Layla’s lungs.
“Let’s just—” Garrett ran a hand through his hair, destroying the neat style. “Let’s finish this quickly.”
He turned back to the shelves, putting distance between them, and Layla sagged against the metal framework behind her, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
They worked faster after that, maintaining careful distance, neither acknowledging what had almost happened.
Or what they’d both wanted to happen.
Layla was counting boxes of shampoo when Garrett spoke again, his tone carefully neutral. “You’ve been doing well this week. The guest satisfaction reports were thorough.”
The compliment caught her off guard. “Thank you.”
“And Marcus mentioned you stayed late to help that family with their booking issue.”
“It wasn’t a big deal. They had kids, and their reservation got messed up. I just—” She shrugged. “I wanted to help.”
When she glanced at him, Garrett was watching her with an unreadable expression.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just—” He looked away. “You’re good at this. The hospitality part. Some people have the technical skills but not the heart for it. You have both.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest, more potent than any grand praise. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve said to me since I started.”
His lips quirked—not quite a smile, but close. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Garrett.” The correction was quiet, almost reluctant. “When it’s just us, you can—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “Never mind.”
But the damage was done. That small allowance, that tiny crack in his armor, felt monumental.
Layla moved to the back corner, where cleaning supplies were stored on the bottom shelves. She had to crouch down to count them, and she was so focused on the inventory that she didn’t hear Garrett approach.
“Do you need the clipboard?” His voice came from directly above her. “I think I left it back here.”
“Oh, I didn’t see—” Layla started to stand, the same moment Garrett leaned down to reach past her.
They collided in the middle—her rising, him lowering—and suddenly his face was right there, so close she could feel his breath on her lips.
His hand shot out to steady her, gripping her waist, and the contact sent electricity shooting through her entire body. She grabbed his shoulder instinctively, and for one suspended heartbeat, they were frozen there, tangled together, breathing the same air.
Garrett’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his fingers tightened on her waist almost imperceptibly.
“Layla,” he said, and it sounded like a warning and a plea all at once.
Her free hand had somehow ended up on his chest, and she could feel his heart racing under her palm, as wild as her own.
“I should—” His voice was wrecked. “I need to—”
But he didn’t move. Neither did she.
The clipboard clattered to the floor between them, breaking the moment.
Garrett jerked back like he’d been burned, releasing her so abruptly she stumbled. His expression went blank, walls slamming back into place.
“If I don’t leave right now—” He backed toward the door, putting the entire length of the supply room between them. “You need to finish the count alone. Leave the tablet on my desk when you’re done.”
“Garrett, wait—”
“That’s Mr. Hawthorne to you, Ms. Rivera.” His voice was ice, but his hands were shaking. She could see them trembling at his sides. “And this—whatever this is—it stops now. Do you understand?”
Her throat was tight. “Do you?”
His jaw worked, and for a second, she thought he might say something honest. Something real.
Instead, he grabbed the door handle. “Lock up when you’re finished. I’ll see you Monday.”
“It’s Thursday—”
“I’m taking tomorrow off.” He wouldn’t look at her. “I’ll be out of the office.”
He left without another word, and the door swung shut behind him with a decisive click.
Layla stood alone in the supply room, surrounded by neat rows of linens and toiletries, her heart still racing and her skin still burning where he’d touched her.
She looked down at her hand—the one that had been on his chest, feeling his heartbeat—and curled it into a fist.
Taking tomorrow off.
Running away.
Because whatever was building between them terrified him as much as it thrilled her.
Layla finished the inventory on autopilot, her mind a million miles away. Or rather, wherever Garrett had fled to.
When she finally locked up and headed to the parking lot, his car was already gone from its reserved spot.
She sat in her driver’s seat for a long moment, staring at nothing.
He’d touched her like she was precious. Like he wanted to pull her closer and never let go.
Then he’d looked at her like she was dangerous. Like she could destroy him.
Maybe she could.
Maybe they could destroy each other.
Friday morning, Layla’s phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Make sure you’re drinking enough water. It’s going to be hot today. The resort AC can be unpredictable in the west wing. – GH
She stared at the message, something warm and aching unfurling in her chest.
He was thinking about her. Even while running away, he was thinking about her.
She typed out three different responses before deleting them all and finally settling on:
Thank you.
The response came immediately.
You’re welcome.
Then, a minute later:
This can’t happen again.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.
I know, she typed.
But as she hit send, Layla knew they were both lying.
Because last night in the supply room, with his hand on her waist and his heart racing under her palm, she’d felt something shift.
This wasn’t just attraction.
This wasn’t just chemistry.
This was dangerous.
And she wanted it anyway.
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