“And usually not because of the event itself. The guests are the factor we have limited control over, and they tend to be a mixed bag.”
Don’t I know it. “I’m sure there’s nothing I haven’t come across already.”
Nathan laughs, and it’s rich and velvety. “You’ll let us know. With your experience at St Chalamet Manhattan and their usual guest profile, I’m not worried about those events. Finding a manager for the resort isn’t our challenge. It’s the dive center that needs more attention right now. The type of diver who comes to Ne’emba usually wants to see and experience more than pretty fish. So the fact that Tristan is a marine biologist is a big plus for us.”
And there lies the crux of the matter. I’m not the important half. I only get in by piggybacking on Tristan’s credentials. I nod, wanting to sink into my chair as if it could swallow me whole. The interview has been thorough—too thorough for a first round. They’re dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s here. And not because of my skillset, but because of Tristan’s. Worst of all, I will never know what was said inhisinterview.
“At Beaumont, we hold our employees to the same standards as St Chalamet, if not higher. For us, our integrity, dedication, and pride in our work is what makes Beaumont stand above the rest,” Nathan continues. “Your résumé is impressive, and I think you are an excellent fit, Ms. O’Reilly. See this time at Ne’emba Island as a type of probation. If it all works out, we’d consider having you on board when we open our first hotel in Massachusetts.” Nathan smiles, and it’s so genuine it only makes mine feel fake. “Not to worry, though, we’re looking at Miami too, and I suspect long term that is where you’d want to be.”
Oh God. He’s referencing Tristan and his work. What did he say about us?
“That’s it from our side,” the recruiter says. “Any more questions?”
So many.But my head is a scramble of brain best served hot—the staff accommodations, how many staff are on the island permanently… God, the list is endless, but Nathan Beaumont is staring directly at me from the screen, his mouth in a half-smile.“No. No, thank you. I’m good.” I have to get off this call before I blurt everything out and screw myself over. I have to think this through.
We wrap up with final goodbyes, and I exit the meeting, then promptly plonk my head down on my desk.
Everything I want and desperately need might be coming my way, tied with a pretty bow and all, but it’s thanks to Tristan Martinelli.
And a fake engagement.
For a long moment, I break down the concept and what it would entail. Shared accommodations at Ne’emba? Probably. I don’t even want to go there. There’s no reason to dig too deep. It’s not a done deal, and bottom line, if nobody knows or finds out, we could get away with it. After all, faking an engagement is just another way of bending the rules to get what I want.
But then a helpful voice in my head chimes in…
Just like I bent them with Brent Fisherman, convincing myself that having a relationship offsite was okay. What a fail.
I bent them again when I reported the Mia Reed incident five days after the fact. In my head, I was still reporting it, if a tad late in an attempt to save my own skin. Another fail.
And now, a fake engagement to Tristan Martinelli? Do I really believe the third time’s the charm?
We haven’t bagged this job yet, and probably never will, but I’m penciling in rule #3 in the Lexi O’Reilly rulebook for happy employment: bend rules with caution, it’s the breaking part that comes with hazards.
Chapter Eight
TRISTAN
Istartle awake at the sharp ring of my phone under my pillow. I feel for it and blink at the screen.Freaking hell.Eight in the morning. I’m on land, for fuck’s sake. But it’s Dad, and I have to take it; he’s doing me a helluva favor.
“Yep. Dad,” I answer as I rub my eyes.
“We got the retainer from Alexandra last night, so we’re good to go,” he begins. “The one thing we never discussed yesterday is our fees.”
“Yep.” Still don’t know how I side-stepped that conversation, and it’s a bit early in the morning?—
“Because we don’t do this type of shit for free.”
“Yep. I know.” There’s a short pause, and I haul myself into a sitting position.
“How’s filming going?” Dad asks.
We didn’t discuss that yesterday either. Dad’s always short on time—less so on money—but everything has a price tag, and everybody has their price. “It’s going.” I’m not begging until I’ve exhausted every other viable option, which currently is Ne’emba Island.
“Run out of money yet?” Dad prods.
How the hell does he know?It’s as if he’s waiting for me to tell him I’ve failed, and I’m not going there right now. Best I steer the call back to business. “I’m okay,” I say. “Lexi must have personal liability insurance of sorts, and the hotel will be covered for every eventuality, so I’m not worried.” And thank you Matthew Simmons—a junior at Dad’s firm who is on a mission to impress me in the hope that I’ll sing his praises to my dad—for that information. “Even if things go totally pear-shaped, I’ll take care of it.”
“Yeah? Pear-shaped, you say? Let’s make sure we understand each other.Youwill stand surety to coverourlegal fees?” Dad gives a dry chuckle. “This case involves a celebrity, Tristan, and St Chalamet is no small fry. I’d think twice if I were you.”
