Chapter Five
Lunch at the Belicourt feels like stepping into a different world.
I follow Diana through the wide stone archway that leads into the resort’s bar and lounge, The Elk Tavern, and my head swivels so fast that I’m pretty sure I look like a tourist.
Which … technically, I still kind of am.
The tavern is dim and warm, lit by wrought iron chandeliers that resemble antlers that hang from thick timber beams. A massive stone fireplace stretches along one wall, flames crackling lazily behind a black iron screen.
Leather club chairs gather around low tables, and the long mahogany bar gleams beneath shelves of top-shelf liquor bottles.
A mounted elk head crowns the mantel.
Huge windows overlook the mountains, their peaks dusted with snow even though it’s early fall.
It smells like cedar smoke, whiskey, and some incredible aroma drifting from the kitchen.
“This is one of our most popular guest spaces,” Diana says crisply as we walk toward a small table near the windows. “The Elk Tavern serves craft cocktails, regional wines, and elevated comfort cuisine.”
“Elevated comfort,” I repeat, smiling.
She pulls out a chair and sits gracefully.
I sit across from her.
A server appears almost immediately.
“Ms. Fairchild.”
“Lunch menus, please,” she says without acknowledging him.
He places them down and disappears again.
I open mine and blink.
Everything looks incredible. Bison sliders. Elk steaks. Huckleberry-glazed trout. Truffle fries. Bourbon-marinated salmon. Wyoming lamb stew.
“Choose quickly,” Diana says without looking up. “Our lunch break is brief.”
Right.
Professional mode.
I settle on the bison slider with a side salad.
Diana orders something involving roasted vegetables and quinoa that looks ridiculously healthy.
The food arrives quickly, and for a few minutes, the conversation shifts into a more relaxed rhythm.
Or at least relaxed by Diana Fairchild’s standards.
Which still feels like sitting across from the Queen of England.
“So,” she says after a sip of sparkling water, “tell me about your degree.”
I brighten immediately.
“Bachelor of science in outdoor recreation and tourism management. It focuses on sustainable tourism development, guest experience design, and hospitality operations.”
She nods slowly.
“Relevant. Though I am surprised that Porter decided to hire someone straight out of college. He usually favors more experienced candidates.”
Translation: she can’t believe he hired someone so young.
“I do have experience. I spent the last two summers working for a luxury resort ranch.”
“Luxury ranch?”
“Yes. In fact, I’d like to eventually open a guest ranch myself,” I admit.
Her eyebrow lifts. “A ranch?”
I nod. “My family owns Wildhaven Storm. It’s a working horse ranch in Wildhaven, but we have a lot of unused acres I hope to build on. Something small but high end,” I clarify. “A place where people can experience the land but still have a luxury hospitality experience.”
She studies me for a long moment.
Then smiles.
“Well, the Belicourt will certainly give you exposure to luxury hospitality standards.”
I grin. “That’s the plan.”
Lunch wraps up quickly, and the real tour begins.
We exit The Elk Tavern and step back into the enormous great hall, where sunlight pours through the towering windows and glints off polished wood floors.
Guests lounge near the fireplaces.
A bellman rolls a luggage cart past us.
The quiet hum of a luxury resort in motion surrounds us.
Diana gestures toward the front desk. “Now I’ll introduce you to the leadership team that keeps the front operations functioning.”
We approach a small group standing near the check-in counters.
Diana’s posture straightens.
“Everyone,” she says smoothly, “this is Harleigh Storm. She’s joining the hospitality development department.”
Five sets of eyes turn toward me.
Here we go.
First up is the petite woman with a square jaw and glossy black hair, cut into a sleek bob, who Diana was talking with when I arrived.
“This is Estelle,” Diana says. “Assistant front office manager.”
Estelle smiles warmly. “Nice to meet you, Harleigh.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
“Estelle handles day-to-day operations and guest escalations,” Diana continues. “She ensures the front desk runs smoothly.”
Estelle shrugs modestly. “I basically put out fires.”
“Preferably before they start,” Diana adds.
Next is a tall man, leaning casually against the counter.
“This is Taron,” Diana says.
Taron gives me an easy nod.
“Duty manager.”
He looks late twenties, maybe early thirties, with sandy-blond hair and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Taron provides twenty-four-hour operational coverage,” Diana explains. “He handles issues during specific shifts and ensures smooth transitions between departments.”
“In other words,” Taron says with a grin, “if something goes wrong at three in the morning, it’s my problem.”
“Yes. He’s our fix-it man,” Diana mutters.
Next, Diana gestures to a young woman behind the desk with a headset around her neck.
“This is Mabree. Front-desk supervisor.”
Mabree gives me a bright smile. “Hi!”
“She manages check-ins, checkouts, and immediate guest requests.”
“Which means,” Mabree says, “I’m the one smiling politely while internally panicking because someone’s luggage ended up in Utah.”
I laugh.
She winks.
Then Diana turns toward a sharply dressed man with dark, slicked-back hair.
“This is Jayson. Concierge.”
Jayson extends his hand. “Welcome.”
His accent hints at something European.
“Jayson manages guest services, transportation arrangements, and local recommendations.”
“I make magic happen,” he says smoothly.
“Sometimes,” Diana adds dryly.
Last is a woman in a navy dress, holding a tablet.
“This is Vida. Guest relations manager.”
Vida smiles warmly. “My job is making sure our guests feel like royalty.”
“Vida focuses particularly on VIP experiences,” Diana explains. “Personalized services, special requests, celebrity accommodations.”
“Basically,” Vida says, “if a movie star wants strawberries flown in from Paris at midnight, I figure out how to make that happen.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Really,” she confirms.
“That’s … amazing.”
Then the realization hits me.
I glance between them.
Estelle.
Taron.
Mabree.
Jayson.
Vida.
“That’s … a lot of managers.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Silence falls.
Diana turns slowly toward me.
Her smile is polite.
But tight.
“These managers report to me, and I report directly to the hotel’s general manager,” she says coolly. “Each one is crucial to maintaining the Belicourt’s reputation.”
Ah.
Right.
I nod quickly. “Of course.”
She smooths a hand down her blazer.
“Speaking of which …” Her eyes shift toward the entrance of the great hall. “Perfect timing.”
I follow her gaze.
A man is walking across the hall.
And suddenly, I understand why everyone in the room seems to subtly shift their posture.
He’s tall. At least six-two. Maybe six-three.
Broad shoulders fill out a dark, tailored suit that looks more expensive than my Kia. The jacket fits like it was literally sewn onto his body. White dress shirt. Silver cuff links.
A Rolex glints on his wrist.
His dark hair is neatly styled, his square jaw clean-shaven. But what really stands out are his eyes. Even from across the room, I can see they’re an intense, piercing blue.
Sharp.
Observant.
Powerful.
“Mr. Garrison,” Diana calls.
He stops and turns in our direction. Those blue eyes sweeping the room.
Then he walks toward us.
And for some reason, my spine straightens automatically.
“This,” Diana says when he arrives, “is Porter Garrison.”
Of course it is.
The name clicks instantly.
The Garrison family.
The founders of the Belicourt.
Built in 1910 by Fitzgerald Garrison.
Passed down through generations.
Which means this man … owns this place. Or his family does at least.
“Mr. Garrison is the Belicourt’s general manager,” Diana says smoothly. “Porter, this is Harleigh Storm, our new social events and conference planning manager.”
His gaze slides over me.
Slow.
Assessing.
From my boots to the top of my head.
Then his eyes meet mine.
They’re colder up close. More calculating.
He gives a small, practiced smile.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Storm.” His voice is deep and controlled. “I hope you enjoy working at my hotel.”
My hotel.
Something about the way he says it makes it sound like his kingdom.
“Thank you,” I say politely. “I’m excited to be here.”
His gaze flickers downward.
To my collarbone. Where the off-shoulder sweater dips and the edge of my tattoo peeks out. The absence of the burgundy blazer Diana gave me earlier is obvious.
One dark eyebrow lifts slightly.
“You’re not wearing our normal business attire.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, and I reach up to tug the collar of the sweater higher. I tried, but the blazer wouldn’t fit over the bulky knit.
“Yes,” I say quickly. “I’ll be sure to have it right tomorrow.”
He studies me.
Then nods once.
“See that you do.”
His attention shifts away almost instantly.
Like I’ve already been dismissed.
“Carry on,” he says to Diana.
Then he turns and walks across the great hall, disappearing toward a hallway near the executive offices.
I exhale slowly.
And that’s when I notice Diana.
She’s watching him leave.
Her expression …
Well, if admiration were a sport, she’d be winning gold.
Her eyes practically sparkle. She might as well be panting and circling his leg like a puppy begging for attention.
Eventually, she clears her throat. Composure snapping back into place like a steel trap.
“Now,” she says crisply, turning back to me, “shall we continue the tour?”
I nod.
But my mind lingers on the man who just walked away.
Porter Garrison.
General manager of the Belicourt.
And apparently …
Very particular about dress codes.