The other is a romance book convention.
Which means our historic mountain resort is currently full of two very different crowds—teenagers and romance readers.
Turns out, those two groups do not mix particularly well.
Who knew?
Apparently not the person who scheduled them.
Which was my predecessor.
I stare down at the booking calendar on my laptop and rub my temples.
This will definitely not happen again next year.
The teens and the romance crowd will be separated by several weeks at the very least.
Possibly months.
Because while the teens themselves are mostly sweet and enthusiastic, romance readers are … something else entirely.
They are loud.
They are passionate.
And they travel in packs like wolves.
Which would normally be fine.
Except the Baptist chaperones keep looking like they might faint every time they walk past the lobby bar, where the authors have been holding spontaneous readings and book signings.
At one point on Tuesday evening, I overheard a group of women loudly debating which fictional cowboy hero had the “best bedroom stamina” while sipping cocktails in front of one of the fireplaces in the great hall. Unfortunately, two youth pastors happened to be checking in at the desk right behind them.
I decided immediately that we needed to keep the romance group wrangled in the bar areas in the evenings as best we could.
And the teens would have access to the grand hall and Cottonwood Court areas to congregate and socialize.
Strategic separation.
Of course, we can’t actually enforce anything, but we can make suggestions. The hospitality team and I have spent the last few days gently guiding both groups away from each other’s activities like polite traffic controllers.
The teens are occupied with an outdoor recreation schedule—hiking, kayaking, and campfire devotionals.
The romance crowd gets wine tastings, author panels, and late-night social gatherings.
And for the most part, everything is running smoothly, and the adults seem to understand and are trying their best to be respectful of the youth.
Well, mostly smoothly.
Except for this evening, when the front desk phone rings.
Mabree answers, listens for a beat, then looks up at me with an expression that says,You’re not going to like this.
I sigh. “What is it?”
She covers the receiver. “Guest in room 314.”
I nod. “And?”
