Chapter 2
Chapter Two
DREW
The last thing I expected this morning was to be knee-deep in snow, hauling arrangements of poinsettias, amaryllises, and paperwhites from my parents’ shop into the Mynt Peak Resort. But here we are.
“This is the last one,” I say, slightly out of breath as I set the planter down near the front tables.
Christine, one of the catering and convention services managers, gives the setup a once-over. “What about the boughs of holly?”
“They’ll be here tomorrow morning,” I tell her. “Mom’s still spraying them with sealant, so they don’t dry out before we get them up.” I pass her the clipboard for a sign-off.
“Perfect. We can always count on your parents to come through for us. Mr. and Mrs. Mynt will be thrilled when they see everything.” She scribbles her name on the form. “Your parents must be so excited to have you back home. Especially this time of year to help with all the extra deliveries.”
“They are,” I say half-heartedly. “Well, I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow.” I collect the clipboard and power walk outside, letting out a deep breath.
Being back in Winterbrook was never part of the plan.
When I opened that email from Pacific Skyways informing me that I’d been laid off, it felt like I was stepping into the Twilight Zone.
Just like that, all the late nights and promotions I’d been chasing were for nothing.
I’d have to start my career again from scratch.
I spent two months applying to every marketing job I could find that would keep me in the LA area.
All that happened was I burned through most of my savings and only landed a couple interviews.
I realized pretty fast that Plan A wasn’t panning out.
So I went to Plan B and came home. I told myself it would be temporary—a few weeks, max.
That was six months ago. And now here I am, still working in my parents’ flower shop as the delivery guy.
It’s not the work that bothers me. It’s the giant question mark hanging over my head about my future. Some days, I feel like I’m stuck in a life that doesn’t fit anymore—like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes and hoping no one notices.
And as much as I try to laugh it off, there’s this voice inside my head that keeps asking What if this is it? What if I already peaked and being the delivery guy is the best I can do?
The truth is, I’m over the corporate grind. I’ve had enough of the endless meetings that could’ve been emails and spending eight hours a day in a tiny cubicle, quietly losing my mind over searching for new buzzwords.
I want something different. Something that doesn’t make me dread Mondays.
I don’t have it all figured out yet, but I’ve started kicking around a few ideas.
I know I want to do something that’s more hands-on and allows me to be more creative.
It’s why I originally got into marketing in the first place.
But for now, the future will have to wait.
I still have a van half-full of fir trees and holiday arrangements to deliver.
I head down the long hallway toward the lobby.
There are oversized wreaths, garlands twinkling with white lights, and a tree that’s large enough to sit in New York’s Rockefeller Plaza.
I weave around it, pass the roaring fireplace, and make my way to the concierge desk.
My sister is alone. Perfect. “You know, you could at least pretend to be working.” I stroll up to her and peer over the edge.
Emma’s hunched over the open top drawer like she’s one of Notre Dame’s famous gargoyles.
“You do realize it’s obvious to anyone with eyes that you’re on your phone, right?
Aren’t you breaking concierge rule number one of what not to do? ”
Emma barely glances up. “It’s just for a second. The tickets for that concert Mom and Dad mentioned last month drop at three, and I didn’t want to miss getting into the virtual queue.”
I raise a brow. “What band? The Midnight Peppers?”
That’s the only group I can think of. Our parents have been following the Peppers since they were our age.
Whenever we’d go anywhere in the car as kids, we’d have to fight our parents for the CD player.
Spoiler alert, they always won. Dad even has this tour shirt from the seventies that’s so worn and thin, I have no idea how it’s still being held together.
“Uh-huh. And this tour is special. Neil, the original drummer, is back for a limited number of stops, including Denver. So every Peppers fan in the area is gonna wanna go.”
Dang it. Why didn’t I think of getting them tickets? Emma’s gonna be the favorite child if she pulls this off. “They won’t sell out that quickly,” I say, trying to downplay it.
“Says you.” Her fingers fly across the screen. “There. I’m in. And there’s still”—she pauses, then squints at the screen—“three hundred and ten people ahead of me. Fingers crossed it doesn’t sell out before I get to the checkout.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Uh-huh.” She waves the phone in front of me.
“If I give you some money, any chance the tickets can be from both of us for Christmas?”
“That depends.” She snorts. “How much are you willing to throw in?”
I dry swallow. Expensive gifts aren’t exactly in my budget right now. But I can’t be outdone by my little sister. And it is for our parents. And I really don’t feel like going to the mall. I haven’t done any of my gift shopping yet. “Two hundred?”
“Deal.”
We shake on it. I’ll need to put in some extra hours at the shop this week to cover it. The place might be a family business, but I’m still only making minimum wage.
“Are you heading home?” Emma asks.
“I’ve got two more deliveries to make first. But after that, I am. I’ve been up since four-thirty, and I’m ready for a nap.” I can’t wait until I have a job with normal hours again. I’m done with the pre-dawn flower-shipment nonsense.
“Well before you take off, can you check on the aquarium near the gift shop? A guest said one of the fish was looking ‘suspiciously floaty’ and there was a lot of green stuff on the glass?”
“Suspiciously floaty? Green stuff?” I echo, frowning. “That sounds like code for ‘already gone to the great fishbowl in the sky’ and an algae bloom. Who normally takes care of the tank?”
“No idea. I texted the boss, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.” She shrugs. “Anyway, you’re the resident fish expert. I figured you could take a look. The sooner it’s fixed, the better,” she says, already waving me off as a guest approaches. “Might as well put your skills to good use, Aquaman.”
“Fine,” I mutter, heading toward the hallway.
I shouldn’t be the one doing this. Hotel aquariums aren’t in my job description.
But I can’t help myself, and Emma knows it.
I’ve always loved aquariums and have kept them since I was a kid as a hobby.
There’s something about the calm, the colors, the slow drift of fish through water that gets me every time.
From a distance, the fifty-gallon tank looks like a toddler went wild with green finger paint.
Three of the aquarium’s four glass panels are coated in a thick layer of algae.
Up close, it’s just as bad. The decorative rocks are fuzzy with green, and the water has a cloudy tint that practically screams neglected filters.
A few fish hover near the bottom, clearly miserable.
I crouch down. This doesn’t look like one of those setups with a hidden filtration system in a back room. I press along the cabinet until I find the latch for the access panel. When it pops open, I’m greeted by gunky tubing, a pump that sounds like it’s on its last leg, and water that’s too warm.
I frown. Whoever was supposed to be maintaining this thing should be fired. Judging by the state of it, I’d bet the tank hasn’t been touched in two or three months. I can’t just walk away from this. Not when it’s this bad.
I roll up my sleeves and grab the algae scraper and the siphon.
At least they left the basic cleaning tools behind.
As I work, muscle memory takes over—scrape, siphon, scrape, siphon.
Bit by bit, the tank starts to look less like a science experiment and more like something a fish might actually want to live in.
As weird as it may seem, there’s something calming about cleaning the tank. Some of the tension leaves my body, but I’m still angry. These fish deserve better. And I’m going to make sure the hotel’s manager or whoever is in charge hears about this.
I set the algae-filled bucket on the ground beside me and reach for the siphon hose, planning to dump the water and clean up my mess before I find one of the resort’s higher-ups. I kneel down. The bucket is heavy, but nothing I can’t handle.
As I straighten my legs and lift the bucket to my chest, someone comes barreling around the corner at full speed and slams straight into me. I stagger backward, and a tidal wave of grimy greenish water splashes up over my arms, chest, and face. It’s slimy, and stinks like, well, fish.