“You want to spend a lot of money on little plates of food?” He judges me from beneath exceptionally long eyelashes. “Sushi? Seafood? Caviar? I’d understand. But tapas? That’s just a fancy way of saying ‘eat before you get here.’”
“Don’t you get some sort of kickback for booking reservations at fancy restaurants? I feel like you’re being bad at your job right now,” I crow.
“Touché.” He raises one well-sculpted eyebrow before crinkling his face again when he looks back at the computer screen. “It’s all booked. For weeks. Do not pass GO. Do not collect $200.”
“Is that a Monopoly reference?”
He smirks. “You like games?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do like games. I like board games and game shows, though, not whatever game you’re playing right now. Why would you recommend a restaurant that doesn’t have any available reservations?” If I was annoyed before, I’m downright vexed now.
Everything is riding on this dinner, and I won’t have a repeat of what happened in Manhattan. I won’t let Buckley’s dismissal rain on my promise to Mom.
“Because, don’t you know I get a kickback from booking reservations at fancy restaurants?” He’s still smirking. It’s like he can’t move the musculature anymore. He’s forever stuck looking smug and sexy.
His sexiness is a sudden surprise. Though, it’s not unfounded. He’s got pouty lips, bedroom eyes, and nice, veiny forearms emerging from the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt, which should be against dress code and the law, maybe?
My libido, which revved up after a long period of disuse at the airport, is purring at full throttle now. This man is eye candy—sickeningly sweet to look at. The urge to taste him overcomes me.
Shocked at myself, I hush the horny drone inside my head.
“Are you serious right now? I thought concierges had special priority when it came to booking reservations.” Somehow, frustration is the emotion nearest to horny, and I can’t stop it from coming out in droves.
“Chill,” he says, the smirk growing wider, defying the foundation of the ends of his face. “I’m fucking with you. I know the hostess. She owes me a favor. I’ll give her a call. They always have one table set aside in case somebody famous shows up. So, unless Rihanna is in town, I think you’re good.”
He holds up his right pointer finger as he grabs the phone with its curly black cord. When the person on the other end of the line picks up, he begins speaking in what sounds like Korean. I take my iPhone out of my pocket.
Still no word about my luggage.
That means I probably won’t have it today.
I shouldn’t dip into my trip money for clothes, but I can’t show up to meet Alexia in myathleisure. That’s not the kind of outfit you wear to woo someone. Once I’m done here, I’ll grab my wallet and run out to a nearby store to pick up something nice and inviting. I’m sure there’s a fast-fashion store somewhere close that I can pop into quickly.
I glance up and Leo is still on the phone, still speaking in hushed Korean. His eyes flick back down to his desk when he notices me looking. Was he staring at me? The idea of it makes me a little hot under the collar of my quarter-mesh wrap.
“Bad news,” Leo says when I slide my phone away from googling nearby H&Ms. “Rihanna’s in town.”
“You’ve got to be kidding m—” I pause, inspecting his face closer. “You’re fucking with me again, aren’t you?”
He nods with so much arrogant pleasure. “Table for two tonight.”
“Do you do this to all the guests?” I ask. Though, after I say it, I look around and it’s not like this place is crawling with clientele.
“Get them highly coveted reservations at hip eateries?”
“Play games with them,” I correct. After spending the entire night alone on a red-eye—the empty middle seat mocking me the whole way—all I want to do is lie down and then go beg my friend to be on national TV with me. A tension headache begins to form around my temples.
“I’ve got to pass the time somehow,” he says. “But if you’re unhappy with my service, you’re welcome to file a formal complaint with the hotel manager. Just so you know, though, I don’t actually work here.”
“Wait, what? You just go around pretending to be a concierge?” This situation keeps getting weirder.
He laughs. It’s unexpectedly breathy and light. “No, I’m a concierge. That’s my job. But, I’m a floater. My company rents out space in the lobbies of hotels all over the country. Sometimes, I’m here. Sometimes, I’m not. If you file a complaint here, it’ll never make it back to my supervisor.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because he’s vacationing with his family in Amsterdam as we speak. He won’t have a second to set down hisstroopwafeland check his work phone, and by the time he gets back, the complaint email will be long buried in a series of Out of Office autoreplies.” It’s as if he takes some perverted satisfaction out of gaming the system. “And even if he did read it, I wouldn’t get in trouble because there’s two other biracial men around my age who work for Traveltineraries, and the supervisor mixes us up all the time. Even if I’ve worked for him the longest.”
I stammer for a second. “That’s...troubling. Well, then, fine. I’ll share my feedback to your face.” I’m on the verge of a sleep-deprived breakdown. A post-breakup breakdown.
