19. Jess
It’s the day before Schuster and Flint, the big retreat group that books with us every year, are set to arrive. After a hectic morning, I collapse with an exhausted sigh. I just finished meeting with maintenance about a couple of minor room repairs and informed Pauline regarding several various last-minute wishes and preferences, such as bedding, room amenities, temperature, decorations, and concierge services, and stopped by the front desk to let them know I had emailed an updated reservation list. We’ve had several unexpected last-minute additions—the new coordinator Mr. Grant sure likes to keep me busy—and we need to have extra special welcome packets (that include personalized handwritten notes) put together. One of our guest specials includes a delightful assortment of original NYC-style cheesecake bites sourced from that charming local bakery just around the corner, a hidden gem cherished by the locals. I call Sarah to ensure we have enough pieces on hand.
Sean walks in a moment later and slides an iced coffee toward me. “Here, you need this,” he says with a rare smile.
I take it graciously, saying “Thank you” before consuming a giant swig. The liquid is cool and invigorating, and the instantaneous shot of caffeine lifts my spirits. With a smile, I lean back in my seat and look at Sean. His lips curve at my reaction.
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything. You’ve been working like a boss,” he says, smiling. “The least I can do is get you coffee and maybe dinner if you’re up for it.”
Dinner? He’s asking me on another date? My heart leaps until I remember I can’t.
“Dinner sounds great,” I tell him, “but this is going to be another late night. We’ve had some last-minute requests from Mr. Grant that I need to supervise myself before they all arrive tomorrow.”
Sean leans against my desk and shrugs. “That’s fine, we can have it delivered. Personally, I could devour some sushi right now.”
I’m touched that he wants to stay, although I shouldn’t be surprised given how equally hard—equally boss, no doubt—he’s been working. It’s easy to see why he’s in the position that he’s in. He has an insane eye for detail, not to mention his willingness to roll up his sleeves and jump right in is admirable. Trust me, I’ve met plenty of CEOs over the years and can tell you that’s not a common occurrence.
Also, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to spend more private one-on-one time with Sean—and his lips. Ever since the charity auction, something has changed. He spends much more time at Westerlyn than he used to. Working these longer stretches of time with him has shown me a side I wasn’t prepared for, a softness I’m privy to. The way he’s been looking out for me and checking in to see how I’m doing shows how much he cares. It’s not just me he’s been sweet with. The other day, Emma had a family emergency, and he immediately called her a car and even followed up with her.
Why has everyone been warning me about him? After our “rough start,” and a few glitches here and there, he’s been nothing but rational, attentive, and even sweet.
The devil on my shoulder tells me it’s the calm before the storm.
The angel on my shoulder tells me it’s perfectly fine to allow myself to fall for Mr. CEO.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” I tell him, getting up to stretch my legs and pick up the folder I (lovingly) labeled “Operation Retreat Rescue” from one of the piles on my desk. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the help, but I don’t want to take up another one of your evenings. We’ve been working late all week.”
“If you’re working, then I’m working,” he says firmly. As he speaks, my gaze involuntarily shifts to his lips, their every movement captivating me. “I’m not one to sit on the sidelines when there’s stuff that needs to be done.”
Those lips will be the death of me.
And not just those lips.
The words he said with those lips.
I want it to be everything, but only if you’re ready for everything.
I’ll wait.
As long as it takes.
Deafening echoes of déjà vu scream in my heart, but I tell myself this time it’s different. Because Sean isn’t Richard.
The problem is: I can’t trust myself to know. Nor can I scold myself.
Here’s the thing.
Everything was going fairly well. Then somewhere along the way, there was a switch. I’m not sure when it happened, how, or why—but it did. Probably somewhere between kissing me stupid and kissing me stupider.
I hated that I liked it.
Apparently, now that I’ve had an appetizer (multiple, in fact), my body wants the whole meal. Every time I feel he’s close, like right now, it’s like someone takes the dial of my body heat and cranks it up all the way. Not only do I sense the familiar spicy scent of his aftershave, but I can also feel the heat radiating off his body in waves. It’s intoxicatingly inviting.
I don’t even hear my desk phone start to ring.
It can ring and ring and ring, and I don’t care.
His green eyes stroke over me. “You want me to get it?” Sean rumbles.
“I got it,” I say, coming to my senses, and regaining enough body control to detach my eyes from his lips and reach for the phone.
It’s Emma from the front desk.
After she explains her issue with the guest, I straighten. “All right, don’t worry, I’ll be down in a second. I’ll take care of it. Offer him drink vouchers for the bar and tell him dinner is on us.”
As soon as I hang up the phone, Sean reverts to Mr. Grumpy King, likely alarmed by my facial expression. “What’s wrong?”
“The new group coordinator arrived a day early, Mr. Grant from Schuster and Flint. Which wouldn’t be such a big deal, if we weren’t still deep cleaning his suite for his arrival.”
A dark shadow crosses his features, then he asks, “Can’t we put him in a different suite until then?”
“Emma told him that, and he started getting belligerent.”
“Oh, fantastic,” he says sarcastically.
“I’ll go talk to Emma, do damage control.”
“Good luck.”
Both of us leave my office, heading in opposite directions, him for his room and me for the front desk. Before I even get there, I already know the situation has escalated. I hear a rough male voice drowning out Emma’s soft, musical one. I brace myself for the confrontation and plaster on my best customer service smile.
When I round the corner, I find an older gentleman, in his mid-to-late sixties, with jet-black hair, which is obviously dyed, and an expensive suit that likely costs more than a week’s stay in our Presidential Suite. His hands rest on the front desk, and I notice a glittering gold Rolex just under his sleeve. His expression can only be described as disgust, like he stepped in something that smelled. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a snobbish person with their face physically turned up, but there he is.
The bold, abstract strokes of Metropolitan Reverie in the back of the lobby instantly catch my eye, effortlessly calming my mood. The art piece wouldn’t grace these walls if not for Westerlyn’s proven devotion to excellence and, let’s not beat around the bush, some downright unmatched triumphs.
“This is unacceptable,” he’s saying, his hoarse voice unnecessarily loud. “What kind of dump is this? The hotel knew I was coming, and my room should have been made available in anticipation of my arrival. Where is your manager?”
“I’m right here, sir,” I say as I approach the desk. “Are you Mr. Grant?” I ask, keeping my tone friendly.
“Obviously that’s who I am. Are you the manager?”
“I’m the general manager, yes. I’m Jessica Summers, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grant.”
I extend my hand for a shake, and he looks down at it with a sneer, as if he’s surprised I dare try to shake his hand. He ignores it. Ooo-kay. I lower it to my side.
“Well,” he says, “then maybe you can make sense of this enormous error on your hotel’s behalf. How is it that my suite is unavailable?”
“That particular suite will be available tomorrow, which is what we have on file for your scheduled check-in. The suite isn’t quite ready, seeing as it’s a day early. However, we have another lovely one that’s available that I’d be happy to show you to.”
“But isn’t that going to require me moving tomorrow? I’m a very busy man, Ms. Summers. I’m running this retreat and will have my hands full when the group arrives tomorrow, especially since we may be a handful of people short and won’t require all the rooms. It means I’ll have to juggle and adjust plans, thanks to this headache. As you can tell, I’m juggling a million things right now. Trust me, young lady, I do not have time for your nonsense because you were utterly unprepared.”
I’m not impressed with how he’s speaking to me and how he obviously was speaking to Emma. Never mind the fact that he definitely was not intending to check in early, nor did he seem to consider his early arrival as an issue. The man hasn’t even stayed here, and he’s already kicking up a fuss.
“The hotel would be more than happy to facilitate the moving of your belongings once the room is available,” I state calmly, forgoing to point out that if he had called in earlier, we might have easily accommodated. I doubt the fault is on our side, however, it is possible. “We understand that you’re a busy man, and we’d be more than happy to have our bellman take care of the change. You’ll be able to pick up your new keys right here at the front desk whenever you have a moment.”
“What about compensation? The hotel should do more to correct this oversight.”
There it is.
There are two types of people who complain at a hotel. Type one: people who genuinely have valid concerns that require attention. Type two: people who use such situations as a way to obtain benefits. I’m starting to see that Mr. Grant is the second kind.
Sean was right, dammit. I really should have insisted on the new hotel room prices for a group of his size, and the cancellation policy. Especially when Mr. Grant conveniently “forgot” to inform the bookings department about the guest shortage he just mentioned, as I was sure he had.
Still, having this guy causing a fuss over something that can be solved professionally and in a timely manner is really testing what little patience I have left.
I can’t believe I skipped my date for this.
I keep reminding myself to stay on the sunny side just like my parents taught me—no matter if it’s a person or a challenge—and channel my “I-so-want-to-kick-him-in-the-balls” energy into a beaming smile and a voice that could soothe a room full of squawking Pippins.
Ah, the liberating power of staying the course with style.
“Well, Mr. Grant,” I start, “I’d be more than happy to look into that. In the meantime, why don’t you enjoy a complimentary meal and drink while we take your belongings to your room?”
“That’s it?” He huffs out a mocking laugh. “That’s all you’re gonna give me for this inconvenience?”
I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, Sean’s voice sounds from behind me, loud and clear.