Politicians.
Presidents shaking hands with hotel owners.
“This resort operates year-round,” Diana says as we walk. “Winter skiing, summer hiking and spa tourism, high-end corporate retreats, international clientele.”
I nod eagerly. “It’s incredible.”
“It’s demanding,” she notes.
We stop in front of a dark wooden door with a plaque that readsSocial Events and Conference Planning Manager.
She opens it.
“This will be your office.”
I step inside.
It’s … small.
Very small.
A narrow desk. A computer. A filing cabinet. And one window overlooking the employee parking lot.
But it’s clean.
Functional.
And it’s mine.
“And my office,” Diana says, pointing across the hall, “is directly opposite.”
I glance into her office.
It’s twice the size.
Immaculate.
Elegant.
Just like her.
She folds her hands. “You may take a the rest of the morning to … acquaint yourself.”
I nod.
“I’ll return around eleven.” She pauses at the door. “Then I’ll take you to lunch and give you a full tour of the property.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you, Diana.”
She nods once and disappears down the hallway.
The silence settles around me.
I exhale.
Then slowly turn in a circle.
My office.
