Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Or maybe if he’s less of an asshole, I won’t find myself attracted to him anymore? Maybe that’s the way my freaky brain and damaged heart work.
Frankly, I don’t get much say on his level of asshole-ness, so I have to go with the flow and just make sure that whoever he is, asshole or not, I keep any feelings for Leo Hart at bay.
I barely saw him yesterday. He had to travel upstate to see a potential development and I spent the day trying to organize my room.
He came home after I’d gone to bed—which was, admittedly, pathetically early. But I wanted to arrive at the hotel early. I got here at seven. I don’t hate not having to commute from New Jersey. It was just as well that Leo wasn’t around on Sunday. I went to bed on Saturday after mac and cheese and three tequilas, my mind spinning and my heart racing, like I’d just come back from the best date ever. I welcomed Sunday without him. I got to recover and regroup. To remind myself that I’m not dating Leo. I’m not really living with him. We’re not roommates and we’re certainly not lovers. Even if he isn’t an asshole, he’s my boss. Like he said, I’m determined not to get fired.
“Shall I leave them on your desk?” Joan asks.
“Sure,” I say. “That would be great. If you need me, I have my radio, or I’ll be around reception or events.” The hotel staff need to see me around—to understand, however subtly, that a change in management means other changes are coming, too.
“Good luck,” Joan says. “And remember, you didn’t get this job to extend your circle of friends.” She winks at me and places the flowers on my desk.
I pause when I hit the lobby to take it all in. I know I don’t own this place, but right now, I feel like I do. This is the moment I dreamt of my entire childhood and most of my twenties. I need to appreciate it for what it is and for what it represents: years of hard work and determination.
Raised voices over at the reception desk catch my attention, so I go over to investigate. A couple is talking to Malika, one of our front desk agents, and things seem to be getting heated. I slip behind the desk and listen to their conversation. It’s clearly a problem over room allocation. Malika has been in her job for at least three years, and from what I’ve seen, she’s good at it.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I interrupt, focusing on Malika.
“Mr. and Mrs. Pearson aren’t happy with their room assignment,” Malika says, her voice lowered.
I turn to the elderly couple, who are almost certainly tourists from the Midwest, and smile. “I’m very sorry to hear that. What exactly is your concern?”
“They want a lower floor,” Malika says.
At the same time, Mr. Pearson says, “My wife needs a window that opens. She feels claustrophobic with the windows closed at night. We requested a window that opens when we booked.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Pearson, can I get you a tea or a coffee while we sort this out for you?” I round the reception desk and guide them over to the lobby lounge.
“I’d love a coffee,” Mrs. Pearson says. “I’m just sorry to create a fuss,” she says, “but I won’t sleep. I just know I won’t.”
“Please don’t concern yourself. We’ll straighten this out.” I gesture over one of the lounge waiters. I don’t recognize him. “Coffee for the Pearsons, please, and put it on my tab.” I turn back to the guests. “I’ll be back with you shortly.”
I nod and turn back to the reception desk. I hope Malika has found a solution already.
“Occupancy is high today?” I ask as I approach her.
“Yeah,” she says, clearly relieved to have some distance from the Pearsons.
I glance over at Ali, the shift manager.
“We’re running at seventy-seven percent,” Ali says.
We have rooms available, but the need for a low-floor room shrinks the available pool of solutions to a shallow puddle. “Nothing’s open on the first floor?” I ask.
Malika sort of winces, and Ali approaches. “Everything on the first and second floors has already been allocated,” he says. There’s a bit of an edge to Ali’s tone that makes me glad he didn’t try to “help” with the Pearsons.
“Okay, let’s see if we can switch something out. We can’t have Mrs. Pearson up all night, can we?”
“But it wasn’t on their notes,” Ali says. “The rooms have been allocated. We don’t change them after they’ve been allocated.”
“What would you do if Taylor Swift checked in and wanted a first-floor room?” I ask.
“I’d ask her why she wasn’t at the Four Seasons.” He smirks.
It’s funny, but at the same time, if he thinks poorly of this hotel and is prepared to say so in front of me and another staff member, his attitude is likely showing through to guests, too.