Chapter 1
NYAH
My arms! My arms! Please don’t fall off!
I had to stop halfway down the service corridor on my way back to the restaurant floor.
What on earth had made me think I could carry a full case of champagne all the way from the storeroom by myself?
I silently wished I were back upstairs in my comfy office instead of waiting tables and lugging boxes for the waitress who’d called in sick three minutes before her shift.
Unable to find anywhere to sit, I lowered myself into an awkward, hunched-over squat with the box resting on my knees. It wasn’t my most graceful moment, but at least no one was around to witness it. I knew if I put the case down on the floor, I’d never lift it again.
The door at the restaurant end of the corridor swung open, and I hauled myself upright with an unladylike grunt.
A patron stood there—a handsome one, wearing a tailored, dusky blue shirt.
This corridor serviced the bathrooms as well, and dull embarrassment crept up my spine as I realized I’d paused to rest right in the doorway to the men’s room. I stepped back and to the side to give him the right of way.
Our eyes met as he approached, and his eyelashes flashed with interest. I usually found that tiresome, but in his case, I was willing to give him a pass. I wasn’t made of stone, and exchanging a smile with a handsome man wouldn’t be the worst part of my day.
I blew back a lock of hair that had fallen into my face while I’d been hunched over. It flipped gracefully skyward, performed a half-twist with a pike, then flopped right back where it had started—in front of my eye. Perfect.
Dusky Blue offered me a warm smile. “Need a hand with that?”
I sighed—far more emphatically than I’d intended. “Yes, please.”
His smile deepened, showing straight, white teeth. He reached out, took the rogue lock between two fingers, and—while holding my gaze—tucked it back behind my ear.
I flinched. The intimacy of the gesture caught me completely off guard. I didn’t like being touched by strangers, but something about him made my heart start to palpitate. Which reminded me—it was past lunchtime, and I needed to take my medication.
“I thought you meant the box,” I said, swallowing twice before the words would come out.
He stiffened. “Oh my God, I’m so—Here, I’ve got it.”
He stepped into my personal space to take the champagne, closing his arms around mine and effectively hugging me, the box acting as a chaperone.
“It’s okay,” I said, every nerve ending firing at once. “I only need to get it to the bar.” He was so close I could smell his cologne.
“Are you sure?” He took the weight like it was nothing.
“I’m fine.” Please stop touching me. “You shouldn’t anyway. It’s probably against OH it nearly bugged his eyes out.
“I… I…”
“—accept option one? Excellent choice.” I smiled tightly. “Please wait in the bathroom. I’ll radio for your shirt, and Angelo will bring it to you along with his apologies. Your credit will be good at the bar for the next two hours. Thank you so much for your understanding.”
He looked like he might explode. He opened his mouth twice to say something, then on the third attempt got out, “Do you know who I am?”
Oh, God! He’s one of those. “I do not,” I said, recovering fully from my earlier shock, but still not quite done with my anger. “I’m given a daily list of VIPs, and I assure you—you’re not on it. Please wait in the bathroom.”
I waited for his response. When it came, it was exactly as I’d predicted.
He turned on his heel and stormed out. Out of the restaurant. Out of the hotel. Out of my life.
I hated confrontations, but the job had made me good at them. I silently reproved myself for falling for those eyes and that smile. Either one on their own, I would have been fine; together... I shook it off. Live and learn. It was a good reminder; not all handsome men are gentlemen.
Pushing through the swinging door, I quickly glanced around the restaurant to see whether anyone had heard. The collective rolling of eyes, the shared smirks, and the mass of wordless admiration for my professional integrity—oh yes, they’d heard.
Mr. Gardner, who was a regular at the bar for his meetings, stopped me on my way round the bar to the staff office. “For a second there, it sounded like you were going to slap him.”
I laughed. “For a second there, I thought so too.”
He grinned and patted my shoulder before heading off to one of his so-called ‘meetings’.
I strode through the staff door to find Angelo hunched over in tears in the kitchen. A cluster of concerned banquet staff were huddled around, offering napkins and sympathy, but he was inconsolable.
Angelo was fifty-eight years old, with luscious salt-and-pepper hair, soft brown eyes, and hands that were still strong and sturdy.
He’d been working for the hotel for over ten years.
His loyalty and work ethic made him a respected head server at this prestigious hotel and a trainer to many of the younger servers who’d come in for summer internships and school co-op programs.
“I’m sorry, Nyah,” he said. “I didn’t know he was behind the door.” His bow tie was slightly crooked, but the rest of his uniform was immaculate.
“Don’t worry about it, Angelo. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that on purpose. He’s just a rude, insignificant man.” A quick squeeze made his shoulders relax. I left him in the capable hands of his colleagues.
I reflected on Mr. Do-you-know-who-I-am. Where had I seen him before? He looks so familiar... his eyes... the same blue-green.
Reaching my office, I looked at the photograph of my son.
His toothless smile always melted my heart.
The fact that he wouldn’t be there when I got home almost broke it.
He had begged me for my approval to attend summer camp, but the duration of his stay put me off.
Emotions started to overwhelm me. I put the photograph away in my desk and decided to call him.
Waiting for the camp leader to pick up, I walked around the office, enjoying the scent of lilies floating through the air. After signing the hotel’s floral contract, the store owner, Maria, guaranteed a fresh bouquet every week as a thank-you.
“Hello, Ms. Rodriguez,” Sonya, the camp counsellor, answered. “Would you like to speak to Lucas?”
“Yes, please.”
Two seconds later, I heard Lucas’ chirpy voice. “We just reached camp, Mama.”
Hearing his voice eased the restless anxiety in my heart. “Did you eat your sandwich and crackers?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Did you drink your water?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Don’t forget to say your prayers and brush your teeth, okay?”
A sigh. “I promise I won’t. Now, can I please go and play?”
“Okay, baby. Have fun. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mama!”
Before I could say anything else, Sonya came back on the line. “Don’t worry, Ms. Rodriguez. I’ll take care of him, and I’ll make sure to send you pictures and updates regularly.”
“Thanks, Sonya.” I played with the pendant on my chain. “And it’s Nyah, not Ms. Rodriguez.”
And eight years ago, it would have been Jiya Flores.
Not that Sonya needed to know that. Not that anybody needed to know, except maybe Alex, my confidential contact in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
Someday I’d be able to relax and be myself, whoever that was.
But with Jeremy still out there, that day wasn’t today.
The afternoon flew by, attending to Mrs. Jones’ requests, which never seemed to end, every time she checked into the hotel.
That was followed by Mr. Garth’s ‘heart attack’, which was just him trying to get frisky with Mrs. Garth after taking one too many pills to keep him going.
The day ended with twelve-year-old twins who’d snuck into the Executive Lounge and got caught sipping beer, claiming it was lemonade.
By 5 p.m., I decided it was time to head home for some R&R. Grabbing my handbag, I headed towards the elevator and pushed the down button.
Recollecting the last incident with the twins and their excuse, I smiled.
My dimples reflected from the polished steel elevator doors.
They attracted compliments from strangers and envy from friends and had been labelled “attention-seeking dents” by my foster father.
That thought led to more, engulfing me in a rumination of the life I’d left behind.
Memories of the past made my hands tremble. They were memories I wanted to forget.
It had been eight years since I’d moved to Vancouver and changed my name.
My birth name was an echo of a half-remembered dream, my previous identity an empty coffin in a pauper’s grave.
I never exposed my face in the public eye, not through photographs on the hotel website or any social media.
This cloistered existence was my life now.
My choice. My reality. And I was hell-bent on making it work without being found.
The elevator arrived.
I entered, steadied my back against the side panel, and then pushed the button for the basement parking level. Soft dings in the silence marked off the last moments of my working day.
I drove against the Friday night traffic as young couples, stags, and office staff headed back into Downtown Vancouver for another wild night—one that would then be discussed on Monday morning between bouts of coffee, with everyone nursing hangovers.
I headed to my peaceful but lonely apartment.