“Mr. Morgan, good morning. I trust you slept well.”
“I did!” I say, putting on my best sunny smile, while Vin grumbles low words that end with something like “could still be asleep.”
The server reappears with a French press and two mugs on a tray. She doesn’t meet the blonde manager’s eyes as she sets them down on the table, and the coffee splatters over its spout and onto the white tablecloth. For a second, she looks like she might panic under her manager’s scrutiny.
“I’ll have an egg white omelette, whole grain toast, butter on the side, and whatever meat or sausage your chef wants to put with that,” I say before someone starts breaking dishes to relieve the tension growing in the room.
The server writes my order down with shaking hands and glances at Vin, who stretches back lazily in his chair.
“Fresh fruit. Yogurt. Granola if it’s gluten free.”
She writes it down too and rushes away. The manager—she’s close enough that I can read Harper on the gold-plated name tag pinned to her shirt—watches the whole thing with a tense frustration that makes me sorry for the rest of the morning shift. If their granola isn’t gluten free, it will be tomorrow, and no doubt our rooms will have the luxury equivalent of extra mints on our pillows and towel swans on our beds tonight.
She gives us an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you’d be up early. The kitchen will—”
“It’s fine.” And it is. As long as we don’t wait two hours for them to cook an omelette and slice the fruit, I don’t care that they weren’t ready for our early service. Still, I can throw her a bone to smooth things over. “But since you’re here, there is something I’d like your help with.”
She squares her shoulders, no doubt relieved to be back in familiar territory. “Of course. What can we do for you?”
“Fishing. My agent said her office had booked a fishing charter while I’m here.”
“Absolutely. Your agent already gave us your information, and your nonresident fishing licenses are taken care of. We have a few guides on staff. If you tell me your preferred fish, I can have one of them ready this afternoon, and—”
“No. I’d like to go this morning.” Why spend more time in here with all these people practically bowing and scraping when I can spend more time with Jack?
Her eyes tighten ever so slightly in the corners. “Of course. This morning. I’ll see who is—”
“I’ve already met him.”
Her lashes flutter. “Who?”
“The fishing guide. Jack. Red hair. The strong, silent type?”
Her smile never falters. “Jack. Of course.”
“He makes good coffee.”
That finally cracks her composure entirely. “He made you coffee?”
“I’m allergic to hazelnuts.”
“You—” Her breath catches before she exhales slowly and smooths down the front of her shirt. “Excuse me.”
No doubt she’s off to yell at the catering staff and then probably the concierge for not double-checking with Ivy about allergies.
Vin tsks. “She’s off to shred her pillow with a butcher knife over that one.”
Our meal is served, and I’m surprisingly hungry.
“Wait until you meet him,” I say, laying into the omelet. The sausage is apparently some sort of artisanal caribou something or other that sounded fun, but it’s kind of mealy. “He really doesn’t know who I am. He thinks you’re the VIP.”
Vin waves a careless hand as he picks at a blueberry. “Honey, I’m the most important VIP there is.”
“Of course you are.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“About what?”
