“Uh, no, but friendliness is definitely important in the hospitality industry.”
Suddenly an idea hits me—a terrific idea. I snap my fingers. “I could be a bartender. Pierce and I learned to mix cocktails for our alcoholic nanny when we were small. I’m actually quite good at it.” Oh, yes, I can see it now—me behind the open-air bar shaking a martini while I flirt with lovely guests and bring in all those sweet tips. I wouldn’t even mind if my friends found out I was an ultra-cool mixologist taking a new woman home to my bachelor pad each night.
Crap on a stick, I can’t. I’ve agreed to the no-women clause. Bugger, that would have been terrific fun.
Emma nods apologetically. “Yeah, bartending is pretty much the job everyone wants, so it usually takes at least eight years to move into that position.”
Eight years? To work your way up to being abartender? “Really? So people work that long?”
Pierce’s nose wrinkles up in disgust. “Yes, Leo. Most people work for the better part of their entire adult lives.”
Might as well wind Pierce up a bit while I’m at it. “I think you should check your facts, old boy. That sounds very wrong.”
“Anyway, not to worry, Leo,” Emma says. “I’m sure we’ll find you something. First thing tomorrow, I’ll call Libby and see if she has anything open.”
Excellent. Libby’s her brother's wife and we get along famously. She’ll definitely find a spot for me. “Thank you, Emma. I really appreciate it, and I won’t let you down.”
“You better not, or you’ll be answering to me, you little wanker,” Pierce says.
“Oh, like that’s so terrifying coming from a man who was taken down by a gecko.”
“It was a giant Komodo dragon, thank you very much.”
Emma cups her hand over her mouth and whispers, “Medium-size iguana.”
“I heard that.”
CHAPTER 6
Mum of the Year Nominations and No-no Words
Brianna
Okay, so let me bring you up to speed on my terrible day (which won’t end for another nine hours). Izzy ate too many sweets at the barbeque and threw up all over the backseat of my car, not to mention on her faux-fur vest, her mustache, and eventually in her wig in her attempt to ‘keep it all in one place.’ So instead of studying, I spent the better part of my afternoon cleaning vomit out of the upholstery and carpet of my Corolla in the blistering heat of the late afternoon sun, which, if you’ve never done it, is quite the fun time, and not disgusting enough to make you gag repeatedlyat all. At least I had Jerry to keep me company while I cleaned. He smoked weed and pointed out when I missed a spot.
After my two-minute get-the-puke-off shower, I opened a can of chicken noodle soup for dinner. While it was heating up, I tried to log on to the school’s law library, only to find I’ve been barred access because I have overdue fees I didn’t know about. This led me to a frantic sorting of my unopened mail, which proved fruitless. What did help, however, was going through Isabelle’s play desk where she pretends to be a law student like Mummy. Adorable on so many levels but seriously problematic because, as it turns out, she’s been opening all the mail with the symbol from the university on the envelope, changing the name at the top to hers, then filing them in her to-do folder.
After I found them, I scolded Isabelle—gently, since she was still lying on the couch looking rather pale—and discovered I’m behind on the library access fee of $250, and that the rates for resitting the bar exams have been raised by $100 each, which is already due. By this time, the soup had boiled over and made a huge mess on the stove.
Fast forward to me pulling into a parking stall at the resort and sprinting to the lobby in my heels, an absolutely unacceptable fifteen minutes late for my shift.
“I’m so sorry I’m late!” I say as I rush across the busy open-air lobby to the concierge desk where Toni is waiting. She’s the head concierge I’m replacing tonight.
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “Everything okay?”
Toni is a total godsend. She and I have been working together long enough that she knows I’m not one to slack off or show up late without a bloody good reason. “Isabelle got sick. She overdid it on the sweets at the engagement party from hell and vomited all over the backseat of my car. Then I ruined dinner because I got distracted by some bad financial news, so I ended up making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and eating mine on the way here.”
“Whoa, that doesn’t sound good. Anything I can do to help?” Toni’s five years older than me and gets by nicely on our salary because she and her boyfriend—also named Tony—are DINKs. I’m not being rude. It stands for Double Income No Kids. Instead of children, they’re plant parents, which honestly sounds delightfully stress-free.
“No, thanks though. I’ll sort it out. I just have to be creative,” I say, noticing that pain in my gut that reappears when I think of my bank account. “Did Rosy notice I’m late?”
Rosy is pretty much the mama bear of the resort. She’s been here for about a hundred years, and she’s tough as nails when it comes to the staff, but a total marshmallow when it comes to children. Whenever I bring Isabelle in, she melts and dotes on her the entire time.
“She did, but I told her you were already here, and that you had gone to deliver a package to one of the rooms in building E.” Building E is the farthest from the lobby.
I let my shoulders drop with relief. “Thanks, Toni. You’re the best.”
“I know you’d do it for me, sweetie,” she answers, unlocking the cabinet under our wooden desk and getting her purse out.
