Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93942 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 470(@200wpm)___ 376(@250wpm)___ 313(@300wpm)
Except that was the kind of thing I never let myself do.
I also needed to distance myself from these men before I did something incredibly unprofessional, like murder one of them. Or even worse, kiss one of them again.
The next morning, as predicted, I was a disaster.
Since Mrs. Greer didn’t have any tasks for me—again—I helped out at the front desk where I mistyped a reservation and sending a couple to the wrong suite. I forgot how to log a guest complaint. And when Mr. Hartley—Bob, as he insisted I call him—stopped by the desk to ask about dinner reservations, I blanked on the restaurant’s hours for a full five seconds while he stared at me expectantly.
Dennis covered for me, but I could feel his concerned look even after the older man walked away.
When Vivian appeared near the desk, I saw my chance.
“Can I ask you something?” I said quietly, stepping aside so the other staff wouldn’t overhear.
“Of course.” Vivian’s expression was warm but professional, the perfect concierge face.
“Is there... another place I could stay? Just while I’m here?”
Her brow furrowed slightly. “Is something wrong with the visiting staff quarters? We sometimes house large families there, or even bridal parties. If there’s a problem, I need to know about it.”
“No, nothing like that. I’m just—I’m a morning person, and the other staff in my quarters are night owls. I can’t sleep with the noise.” I forced a smile. “I don’t want to be difficult. I just thought I’d ask.”
She looked genuinely sympathetic. “I wish I could help, but the resort is fully booked for the holiday season. Even the rooms that haven’t been occupied yet are reserved.” She paused. “I could send over some earplugs? Or a white noise machine?”
“No, that’s okay. Thank you, though.”
She squeezed my arm gently. “Hang in there. The holiday rush will be over before you know it.”
That was the last thing I wanted. This internship was the most important part of my senior year. But it would be rather helpful to actually be awake for it. Feeling defeated, I thanked her again and got back to work.
The next day, Mrs. Greer summoned me to her office.
I’d had another night of poor sleep, and more masculine laughter echoing through the halls meant more lying awake resenting the fact that I couldn’t be as carefree as they appeared to be. By the time I dragged myself out of bed, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.
“Sit,” Mrs. Greer said without preamble.
I did.
She didn’t look up from the paper she was writing on. “Your hours are changing. Effective today, you’ll be working noon to ten p.m.”
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“Noon to ten,” she repeated, her tone clipped. “If you’re such a delicate sleeper that you can’t handle normal staff housing, you can work a later shift like our other night staff. Perhaps that will be more accommodating to your needs.”
My stomach sank. “Mrs. Greer, I didn’t ask for—”
“That will be all.” She said it so stiffly that it was like she felt I’d asked for her job. Not that I didn’t think I could do it, but still. I stood on shaky legs and left her office, my face burning.
She thought I’d demanded special treatment. That I’d complained about the guys and expected the resort to bend over backward to accommodate me.
Vivian must have mentioned it to her, which was kind of the concierge, but now my boss had one more reason to resent me.
Perfect.
That night, I joined the staff for a late dinner.
The restaurant was quieter at this hour, with only a few lingering guests finishing their meals. The staff table was set up near the back, and I slid into a seat next to Pam, who greeted me with a warm smile.
“Welcome to the evening shift,” she said. “You’ll get used to it.”
I wasn’t so sure. My mind had always been sharper in the morning—at least when I got enough sleep. But when the food arrived, I forgot to be grumpy.
The plate in front of me held seared duck breast with what I thought was a cherry gastrique, roasted root vegetables that had been caramelized to perfection, and delicate fondant potatoes that looked almost too perfect to eat.
“Wow,” I said, staring down at it.
Pam grinned. “Asher’s been experimenting with the staff meals. Guests get the traditional menu, but we get to be his very willing guinea pigs.”
I took a bite. The duck was perfectly cooked—crispy skin, tender meat, the cherry sauce adding just the right amount of sweetness to cut through the richness.
It was brilliant. Unfairly brilliant. “This is incredible,” I admitted.
Dennis nodded from across the table. “The kid’s got talent, I’ll give him that.”
I glanced toward the kitchen, where I could just see Asher beyond the pass, moving between stations, his white coat streaked with stains, his expression focused.