Off-Limits Bosses

Chapter 1

Adriana

“Excuse me!” I heard a shrill, urgent voice from behind me, and turned to see a guest so pale her platinum hair seemed darker than her face. “Can you help me?”

I glanced around the foyer. Someone was carrying bags, and the receptionist was on the phone. Mr. Klein, my brand-new boss, was nowhere to be seen. That meant whatever the problem was, it was mine to solve, within the first hour of starting this job.

“Certainly,” I said with a smile, as I had been trained to do. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Elena’s laptop is broken,” the guest answered, wide-eyed and clearly stressed to the bone. “And she needs a new one, as in yesterday. She has a meeting in three hours that she simply cannot miss.”

I resisted the urge to blink in confusion. I had no idea who Elena was, nor how I would start solving something like this. But I couldn’t show my ignorance. I had to be perfectly confident and calm, as if I simply bought new laptops for strangers every day.

“Right,” I said with a quick nod. “May I ask the room number?”

“Honestly, we might need to change rooms, too,” the guest continued. “It’s 422 right now, but Elena doesn’t like the sound of the air conditioning.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I was still smiling, even with my nerves fraying further by the second.

“Just get it done, okay? My job is on the line,” she snapped in return, before storming off toward the elevators, already dialing a number on her phone.

How hard could it be? I thought as I approached the reception desk. After all, I just needed to get a brand-new laptop shipped to a place that was just remote enough to make express delivery impossible. Piece of cake.

I waited for the receptionist, Louisa, to finish checking in the new guests before I approached her behind the desk. She must have noticed something in my expression, because her own clouded over.

“Trouble already?” she asked, one eyebrow raised. “They ask you to steal the moon or something?”

“422 wants a new room,” I answered, going over the situation in my mind. “And a replacement laptop.”

“Oh, I can help you with both, no problem.” Louisa smiled with relief, as if this were some minor, regular occurrence. “I’ll switch them to 521 and get a hold of Julio. He knows electronics people. You should get to know him, he’ll be saving your life a lot.”

“Thank you,” I breathed, making a mental note of the name. “Mind emailing me the number? Maybe some others that I need to know?”

“Will do.” Louisa’s eyes were already trained on her computer, her fingers flying as she typed. I left her to it, returning to the concierge desk and wondering what exactly I had gotten myself into.

On my resume, I had listed ‘client services management’ as part of my experience.

A deliberately vague description that could easily be misconstrued as being related to the concierge position for which I’d applied.

It was actually more closely related to the summers I spent checking in clients at a private yacht club.

Still, I didn’t panic. The problem would be sorted out. I was fine, I knew my way around on-the-job training, and I could do this. I just had to be the absolute best concierge these guests had ever seen, and I’d make it through.

“Hey, you!” Someone else was storming up to my desk, clearly ready for a massive argument.

“How may I help you, Sir?” My cheeks were beginning to hurt, but I’d sooner fling myself off a cliff than stop smiling.

“I specifically requested the swan configuration for the towels in my room,” he snapped, and it took real work to keep my surprise hidden. “Who the hell decided that triangles were acceptable?”

“My apologies, Sir,” I answered, as if his rage was completely reasonable. “May I ask for your room number so that I may fix this issue promptly?”

“Incompetent!” he yelled. “How do you not know something as simple as a room number? Do you know who I am?”

“Again, I must sincerely apologize,” I continued, letting my anger simmer beneath the surface but not show on my face. “It’s protocol to confirm this information. As soon as you confirm your room number, I will ensure that the, um, oversight with the towel configuration is rectified.”

“434,” he answered through furious spittle. “You better make sure whoever is responsible for this is disciplined. Absolutely unacceptable.”

“Of course, Sir,” I smiled serenely, even though serene was the last thing I felt. “I will get this cleared up immediately, and it won’t happen again.”

“Better not!” He stormed off toward the front door, and I was relieved that this argument did not go any further.

This issue was an easy one to solve, too; a quick call to room service and the man would never have to look at a triangular configuration again.

There were more small issues before breakfast, but I found time to go over Louisa’s list of helpful numbers and save many of them on my phone.

In between, I called maintenance for an issue with a shower, and arranged a later checkout with reception.

Soon enough, I was fairly sure that I could keep this up.

I could actually be what I was hired to be.

Then, a guest whom I actually recognized lazily approached me from the far end of the foyer. They’d told me about him: a regular at the hotel, often had outlandish requests, and my job was to keep him as happy as I could. This was it. This was where I would really have to prove myself.

“Mr. Whitcomb,” I greeted him with a shallow bow.

He whipped his sunglasses off his face, his silver brows knitting tightly together.

“Absolutely not. My name is Reggie. That’s what you call me.

Not ‘Sir’, not ‘Mr. Whitcomb’, not ‘His Royal Highness, the Best of the Best’, although, I gotta say, I have a soft spot for that one. But you call me Reggie. Got it?”

“Of course, Reggie,” I answered with a quick nod. “How may I help you this morning?”

“I booked the terrace for breakfast, didn’t I?” he asked, twirling his sunglasses between two fingers. He was dressed in a white linen shirt and pants, which contrasted starkly with the far-too-dark tan on his skin. It seemed like a stereotype, though I couldn’t really put my finger on which one.

I checked my computer. “You did. The kitchen will have everything ready for you shortly, S— I mean, Reggie.”

“Yeah,” he answered, stretching out the word. “No. Actually, I’ve changed my mind. No terrace for me today.”

It felt like there was more, so I said nothing and waited for him to reveal it.

“I want to go to Pebble Beach,” he finally said. “Little helicopter ride. That’s not a problem, is it?”

He started walking away, and I followed, with my phone already in my hand. “Not at all.”

I had a plan. I had the numbers I needed. If I could do this, then Mr. Klein would know that he could trust me, and so would the hotel staff. I wasn’t going to ask Louisa for any more help, or anyone else for that matter. This was up to me, and I was pretty confident that I could pull it off.

I dialed the kitchen and spoke to Reggie while I waited for them to answer. “Any particular menu you have in mind?”

“As long as it has fugu, I don’t care,” he replied, continuing down the hallway that led out to one of the gardens. “They just have to do it right, you know? Or I might have a small meltdown. Food disappointment is about the worst thing in the world.”

“Of course,” I agreed, despite being able to list a hundred worse things off the top of my head. Then the kitchen picked up. “It’s Adriana. Please cancel Reggie’s terrace booking. He’ll be taking the helicopter to Pebble Beach instead.”

“You’re kidding.” My introduction to Nolan, The Pacific’s executive chef, had been brief, but I recognized his voice instantly. He sounded less surprised than annoyed.

“Not kidding,” I said as firmly and confidently as I could.

A series of muttered curses filtered over the line before Nolan said, “Do you have any idea what I went through to get his damn fugu? Now I have to trash it, which is just perfect.”

Shit. I hadn’t considered that.

But my priority was the guest, and I took a breath. “Is there any way we can send it to Pebble Beach?”

Nolan scoffed, and Reggie balked in tandem, with me caught between their reactions, not knowing what I’d done wrong.

“You want me to eat old food?”

“This is The Pacific, not Uber Eats.”

“Uh…” I held up a finger to place Reggie on pause, my mind racing ten steps ahead. “Reggie sends his apologies to the kitchen, but he won’t be dining here for breakfast. I’ll arrange his meal directly with the staff at the country club.”

“Done?” Reggie asked brightly when I ended the call in the middle of Nolan’s tirade.

“Yes.” I pulled up the number for the country club. “I’ll just call through the arrangements for your arrival.”

He didn’t say anything, simply nodding before turning his attention away from me again. It seemed like he trusted me to get this done, and I wasn’t going to disappoint him. I would accept nothing less than perfection, either, given the sheer status of a place like this.

“Monterey.” The answer was prompt, but tired-sounding, like whoever it was had just started their shift and wasn’t looking forward to the day.

“I need you to prep a breakfast for Mr. Whitcomb—Reggie,” I said, correcting myself as soon as I noticed the warning look that he shot my way. “He’ll be arriving by helicopter shortly.”

“Reggie again?” The sigh from the other end of the line convinced me that this was the kind of thing he was known for. “Okay, sure, whatever. We’ll have the place ready for him.”

“Perfect. His only request is for fugu, and the chef can build everything else around that.” I ended the call and turned to him. “Please, Reggie, follow me to the helipad.”

“Seems like you know what you’re doing,” he said from behind me. “Better than the guy before you. Glad they finally managed to get rid of him.”

I paused for a moment at that comment, though I kept moving fairly quickly. Mr. Klein had told me the previous concierge retired, but Reggie’s words made me wonder whether that was the real story. If he had been sacked, what had he done to deserve it?

I didn’t entertain his comment, choosing to call ahead to get the helicopter ready instead of gossiping with a high-profile guest. He sauntered along beside me, as if he couldn’t be bothered to hurry anywhere at all.

I slowed my pace to match his, so that I was never too far ahead.

At the same time, I tried to keep my face as neutral as possible, despite imagining how impressed Mr. Klein would be that I’d managed to arrange all of this on my first day.

I’d worry about matching this performance for the rest of my career later.

“They’re almost ready for you,” I told Reggie as we reached the elevator, and he nodded. “In the meantime, is there anything else you need?”

“Nah.” Reggie shrugged as the doors slid open and we walked in. “I think you’ve pretty much covered it.”

He leaned against the wall while I stood in front of the doors and pressed the button for the roof.

I wondered how rich Reggie was that it was this easy for him to literally just take a helicopter to breakfast. It seemed more than a little insane to me.

But I had to pretend it was a completely normal thing to request.

By the time we left the elevator and stepped out toward the helipad, the helicopter was already there. I led Reggie to one side while we waited for the signal to board.

As we were waiting, however, the elevator dinged, and we both turned. It was only my stomach that dropped, though, when Mr. Klein emerged, his tie flying in the wind and a look on his face that was the opposite of delighted and impressed.

He came over and took me by the arm, leading me out of earshot. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”