Good God, it’s hot.
I pinch the front of my dress with two fingers and fan myself, hoping to avoid walking into my meeting with the beast looking like a hot mess. Unsightly underarm sweat stains would make for a poor first impression.
It’s like a freaking sauna.
I’m no stranger to New York’s 90/90 summers—ninety-degree and ninety-percent-humidity—but LA is much hotter. Iswear it feels like it’s two hundred degrees. I can’t fathom what it will be like by midday.
As I trek to the entrance, I take note of the hustle and bustle—the revolving door of new faces. That’s one of the constants about life as a hotelier.
Everything about these buildings screams corporation. It’s the antithesis of the Villiers Grand Hotel. Our family boutique hotel in New York brims with rich history and welcoming old-world charm. Even from the outside, the Pompadour seems a little too sleek, cold, and impersonal. I doubt it will be any different once I pass the threshold.
Pompadour. Hmph. Pretty pompous, if you ask me.
When I enter the hotel, the cool air hits me like a speeding freight train.
Thank you, God.
I pause long enough to scan my surroundings. My eyes bounce to every corner. A swarm of newly arrived guests take residence in the opulent lobby, and the hotel staff is busy attending to them.
How do I get to you, King Kong Tycoon?
I either have to ask a concierge for help or figure it out myself. The scale of this hotel is far more eye-popping than the Villiers Grand, but I’m willing to bet everything to my name, there’s a dedicated set of elevators leading to the executive floor. As I debate, a group of four men talking, coffee cups in hand, pass right by me.
My ears catch a snippet of their conversation.
“Yeah, we should be locking down the purchase on three old office buildings we’ll convert into high-end hotels-slash-residencies in Dallas by end of day,” a man wearing a purple shirt, black pants, and tortoiseshell glasses says.
“We should secure two soaring towers in Cleveland by end of the week,” a tall blond wearing a flower print shirt says.
With the agility of a spy, I trail behind the foursome, balancing on my four-inch heels, as they lead me to the Promised Land.
Operation King Kong Tycoon commences.
I step into the elevator right before the doors close.
“Good morning,” I say with a bright smile.
Four pair of eyes rake up and down the length of my body.
“Good morning,” they say, practically all at once.
The lack of subtlety in their tone is as heavy as a brick. I’m surprised they didn’t punctuate with,And how you doin’?a la Joey fromFriends.
I’m not one to play damsel in distress, but it’s the only card I have right now in my deck.
“I’m here to see Mr. Phoenix König. Silly me, I forgot which floor he’s on.”
“He’s expecting you?” The tinge of suspicion in the guy’s voice wearing a purple shirt doesn’t go unnoticed.
Think.
Think.
Think.
“I’m here about…”Dammit. Think faster.“A family run boutique hotel on Park Place,” I say. I cock my head to the side and knit my eyebrows together for effect. “It’s one of those hush-hush deals Mr. König wants to snag before anyone else.”
Giving them the name of our family hotel would be like sounding the alarm. I want to catch Phoenix König with his bespoke pants down.
