“I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole the other night,” I say. “I just get irritated when people bring up the folklore around this place. The ghost-in-a-ball-gown nonsense.”
Her mouth twitches. “Apology accepted.”
Silence settles between us.
The air feels thick. Too warm.
My eyes drift from her sunglasses to her mouth and back again as her tongue slides out briefly, wetting her bottom lip.
I look away immediately.
Pausing to compose myself.
Finally, she speaks. “Was there anything else you needed, Mr. Garrison?” Her voice is barely a whisper.
“No, that was all.”
I stand quickly.
“Enjoy the sunshine.”
She lifts a hand lazily in acknowledgment as I turn and walk back through the suite without another word.
When I reach the hallway, my pulse is racing.
I head toward the elevators.
The tension in my chest slowly unwinds with each step.
By the time the elevator arrives, I’m smiling. Because despite everything—despite the awkward conversation, despite her cool tone, and despite the professional distance we’re both clearlytrying to maintain—I could still see the moment her composure slipped. Just for a second. When I said I liked her hair down.
The doors slide open, and a grinning Calliope is staring at me.
“Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Garrison?”
I step inside. “Yes.” I sure did.
The week has turned into absolute chaos.
Not the kind that explodes all at once and burns out quickly.
No. This chaos has built slowly day by day.
By Wednesday morning, I am pretty sure half the hospitality team is surviving on coffee and sheer will.
And honestly?
I don’t mind it. It sure makes the days go by quickly.
This is the part of the job I thrive at—the complicated ballet of running a big property when it’s packed wall to wall with guests.
We are hosting two conventions at the same time this week.
Which probably sounded like a brilliant idea to someone months ago.
However, that someone wasnotme.
One is a Baptist teen leadership convention.
