01
The club's front gates radiated more luxury than anywhere Brandon had ever lived. Gilded iron caught the afternoon sun, casting dancing glints of light across the intricate crest forged into the metal. The tall gates stood wide open, but a motorized security arm blocked incoming traffic.
A voice crackled through a speaker box from the massive guardhouse, its dark tinted glass concealing whoever sat inside.
“What do you want, kid?”
The greeting would have been entirely different if Brandon had pulled up in a luxury car instead of this dented, rattling junk heap that sounded like a corpse clawing out of the grave.
“Told me to be here at eight. Got called in to fill an open position. Pretty sure I work here now.”
A beat of dead silence. The intercom speaker hissed with static before clicking back on.
“Name?”
“Brandon Bryant.”
Another wait in the sweltering heat. Expecting AC in Brandon's beater was asking for a miracle, and the summer sun did nothing to help him look presentable. He was sweating straight through his shirt, dark patches soaking the fabric while perspiration beaded on his forehead.
A mechanical hum kicked in, and the barrier arm lifted.
“Head up to reception and let them know you've arrived. HR should come grab you. Good luck, kid.” The guard's voice sounded noticeably friendlier this time.
Brandon eased forward along the paved drive, winding through the club's manicured grounds.
Mature trees blunted the heat. With every yard closer to reception, the landscaping thickened, shielding the facilities from view.
If you didn't know the sheer size of the property, you'd assume it was modest—just an old, sprawling manor house wrapped in trees.
Of course, that couldn't be further from the truth.
Following the signs toward employee parking, he tucked his car into one of the furthest spots in the lot. From there, Brandon made the trek over to the side entrance of the clubhouse.
The woman behind the desk sized him up from head to toe. Her polished nametag read Jeanine.
“I'm here for—”
“Down the hall, last door on the right. Laura is about to start the new hire tour.”
Was it really that obvious he was staff? Naturally, she was probably used to spotting members on sight. Or maybe the gate guard had called ahead. Still, it delivered a sharp sting to his pride.
Brandon nodded, murmured his thanks, and headed down the corridor.
The door stood open, revealing three people already waiting, along with a woman who was unmistakably Laura.
She wore an executive version of the club uniform, sporting a tailored blazer and slacks that flatteringly hugged the flare of her hips.
She greeted him crisply and handed him a folder marked Welcome to the Team.
Inside was a dense stack of paperwork: onboarding forms, conduct policies, shift schedules, assigned stations, and a fold-out map of the grounds. Brandon thumbed through the pages toward the back, discovering the packet totaled nearly fifty pages.
Laura launched into the folder's contents, highlighting several key rules. Mid-speech, a few more new hires trickled in, each wearing the same frantic look of having shown up late on day one.
Once the count hit eight and everyone seemed to be accounted for, the real tour began.
By the time Laura led them into the spa, Brandon could barely wrap his head around the sheer scale of the place.
They had already trekked through the sports complex—complete with tennis, basketball, and volleyball courts—and wound through private gardens and lavish stone ballrooms positioned across the property, each built to accommodate hundreds of guests in classic, century-old opulence.
The main pools were a spectacle in themselves: one Olympic-sized pool flanked by two supposedly "mid-sized" pools that were anything but modest.
Covering just that much ground had already burned an hour.
“My feet hurt just thinking about you walking this whole place,” whispered Johnny, the newly hired barista beside him. The guy had been friendly and kept up an easy banter throughout the tour. “At least I get to hide behind the counter all day.”
Both chuckled softly, turning their focus back to Laura.
Next, Laura pointed out the way to the golf course, skipping the walk out there to save time.
Heading back toward the central complex, they turned east, passing the main lounge bar, the fitness center, and the indoor pavilion.
Laura gestured along the adjoining paths, detailing the nature reserve, the private lake, and the wooded grove preserved for members looking for a more "rustic" escape.
She brought up the luxury rental cabins available to members, though she skipped walking them out there as well.
“It’s quite a trek, and for the most part, your day-to-day duties won't bring you out here,” she said, pausing to point at two guys near the front. “Except you two on groundskeeping. But your supervisor will take care of that, so don't worry.”
And then they arrived at the spa—another facility far larger than Brandon had anticipated.
The space blended rich woodwork, Zen minimalism, and an unmistakable Eastern aesthetic, likely designed around the thermal baths housed within.
Dry saunas, yoga studios, private massage suites, locker rooms... everything was built to accommodate far more people than Brandon ever imagined belonged to the club. Probably so the place never feels crowded, he thought.
All curiosity about the club vanished the instant his eyes met Monica's. Laura introduced her as the spa supervisor, and the second the orientation group focused on her, color flooded her cheeks.
Her dark hair was pulled up into a loose bun. She wore thick-framed glasses, though the lenses weren't strong. They didn't detract from her beauty in the slightest; if anything, they only highlighted the sweet, disarmingly shy aura she gave off.
A wickedly observant part of Brandon's mind couldn't help but notice how her generous bust contrasted with that innocent demeanor. The standard spa uniform didn't reveal much skin, but the fabric was stretched taut across her chest, commanding his undivided attention.
Get it together, idiot, he scolded himself, snapping his attention back to the tour.
That was when he caught sight of two women stepping out of a massage suite.
A blonde and a brunette, young, somewhere around thirty.
Brandon's eyes locked with the blonde's, and an icy chill shot straight through his ribs.
She wore a teasing, wicked smirk and carried herself with an edge that screamed sheer, thrilling danger.
The contact lasted only an instant before she slipped into the locker room.
By the time Brandon snapped back to reality, the tour group was already drifting out of the spa corridor, leaving him behind. Composing himself, he hurried to catch up.
Working here might not be so bad after all, Brandon decided.
“Could you start by switching out the towels in the massage rooms, please?” Monica asked, studiously avoiding his gaze.
He hadn't noticed when handed the folder, but checking his schedule after Laura wrapped up the tour revealed he was assigned to the spa for the day.
Honestly, he wasn't complaining. He had headed down and reported to Monica, who seemed noticeably less flustered now than she had in front of the whole group.
“Of course.”
“You can toss all the dirty ones into the hamper. Honestly, any bath sheets or hand towels on the tables are fair game. But make sure to change out the table linens first.”
She came across as remarkably efficient. That was the exact word for her. She moved with crisp, brisk purpose—likely because she was running the entire spa floor solo.
“Sure thing, on it.”
She nodded and stole a fleeting glance at him. Brandon was still trying to read whether she was just naturally bashful or if some unspoken tension hung between them.
He set straight to work as instructed, and once the massage rooms were clear, he went to reset the yoga studio.
“Is it always this quiet?”
Monica blinked at him, puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“The club. Well, the spa. Haven't seen many people around, considering how massive it is.”
“Just the day. Tuesday lunchtime is about the best window we get to reset everything. Wait until Thursday or Friday hits. Especially late in the day or at the crack of dawn.” Monica dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s pure hell.”
Brandon let out a soft chuckle. She reminded him of a kid terrified of getting caught swearing in front of an adult.
“Makes sense.”
“I'm heading into the thermal bath locker room. When you're done here, come find me, okay?” She managed a shy, nervous smile before turning and scurrying off before he could even reply.
The rest of the afternoon drifted by at the same calm pace.
Toward the end of his shift, though, a group of older women came in for the whirlpool tubs, leading Brandon to an area of the spa he hadn't yet seen.
Flagstone pathways winding through a landscaped garden concealed half a dozen private hot tubs, shielded by dense, manicured hedges designed to offer members complete privacy.
It was out there that the core mandate drilled into him by the employee handbook truly hit home: “Your primary duty is to serve and satisfy the members.” For the remaining hours of his shift, he was practically their personal servant, waiting on the group of wealthy matriarchs hand and foot.
He fetched drinks, hauled fresh towels, and jumped at every single request.
Whether by sheer coincidence or twisted fate, it would be right there by those hot tubs that Brandon would cross paths with Amanda—and discover an entirely different side to the words written in that manual.
“Your primary duty is to serve and satisfy the members.”