“Oh, right. Where’s Nicole?” she asks into the microphone. “Nicole Cooper, the events coordinator?”
“Her name is Nora,” I whisper, as Nora (who is literally standing next to Carolina) steps forward.
“Right here,” she says quietly.
Carolina says, “Nora, sorry. I want everyone to look at the woman next to me. Her name is Nora, and she’s the point person for the hotel. Anything you need goes through her. Problems with your rooms, special meal requests, booking a practice session at the bar… all of that goes through her. She’ll be set up in Building C in, what room, Nora?”
Nora has gone bright red. “I’ll have a desk set up in the lobby of Building C so it’ll be easy to find me.”
“That’s it. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” Carolina says to the audience. “But not too much! We wouldn’t want to give Mr. Rojas a heart attack.”
Lots of laughter and applause at that one, and Carolina switches off the mic and hands it to Nora. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. But it’s fine. Really. We’ve established you as bad cop and me as good cop.”
“Great.”
“Uh-oh,” Markos says, clapping a hand on my back. “He’s going to pout about that one.”
Shrugging him off, I say, “I do not pout.”
He gives me a skeptical look, then loops his arm through Carolina’s. “Come on, I want you to meet Lolita, one of the resort bartenders. She’s the most sarcastic woman I’ve ever met. Also, I want another drink.”
The two of them go off together, leaving me alone with Ms. Cooper, who gives me a sympathetic look. “That couldn’t have gone worse.”
“Oh, I think it could have,” she answers.
“How?”
She snaps her fingers. “You could have thrown up or tripped and fallen into the pool.”
I smirk. “Barring those two unlikely events, it couldn’t have gone worse. They hate me, and I’m not sure if you know this, but I’m here to make Rojas Rum cool with the younger crowd.” I’m not sure why I’m telling her this, but I can’t seem to stop. “You know, since James Prescott pretty much killed our reputation with the older generation, otherwise known as our regular customers.”
Her face falls. “Oh. In that case, maybe let your brother handle the speeches from now on. And… the general face time stuff with people.”
“I’m that bad, am I?” I ask, feeling utterly deflated.
“Not really. Although, you’d probably play better to a more mature audience. Like people your own age.”
Wincing, I ask, “How old do you think I am?”
“I’d put you as a young-looking forty.”
“Forty? Jesus, it’s worse than I thought.”
“You’re not forty then?”
“Far from it. I’m thirty-six.”
“So I was off by four years,” she says, trying to hide a smirk.
“Four years is a lot, thank you very much,” I answer, finding myself grinning back despite myself.
“Huge difference. Huge.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Huh. I had you pegged at about twenty-four.” Ha! See how she likes it.
