And eight years ago, it would have been Jiya Flores. Not that Sonya needed to know that. Not thatanybodyneeded to know, except maybe Alex, my confidential contact in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Someday I’d be able to relax and be myself, whoever that was. But with Jeremy still out there, that day wasn’t today.
The afternoon flew by, attending to Mrs. Jones’ requests, which never seemed to end, every time she checked into the hotel. That was followed by Mr. Garth’s ‘heart attack’, which was just him trying to get frisky with Mrs. Garth after taking one too many pills to keep him going. The day ended with twelve-year-old twins who’d snuck into the Executive Lounge and got caught sipping beer, claiming it was lemonade.
By 5 p.m., I decided it was time to head home for some R&R. Grabbing my handbag, I headed towards the elevator and pushed the down button.
Recollecting the last incident with the twins and their excuse, I smiled. My dimples reflected from the polished steel elevator doors. They attracted compliments from strangers and envy from friends and had been labelled “attention-seeking dents” by my foster father. That thought led to more, engulfing me in a rumination of the life I’d left behind. Memories of the past made my hands tremble. They were memories I wanted to forget.
It had been eight years since I’d moved to Vancouver and changed my name. My birth name was an echo of a half-remembered dream, my previous identity an empty coffin in a pauper’s grave. I never exposed my face in the public eye, not through photographs on the hotel website or any social media. This cloistered existence was my life now.
My choice. My reality. And I was hell-bent on making it work without being found.
The elevator arrived.
I entered, steadied my back against the side panel, and then pushedthe button for the basement parking level. Soft dings in the silence marked off the last moments of my working day.
I drove against the Friday night traffic as young couples, stags, and office staff headed back into Downtown Vancouver for another wild night—one that would then be discussed on Monday morning between bouts of coffee, with everyone nursing hangovers.
I headed to my peaceful but lonely apartment.
2
CALEB
Ireplayed the incident in my head as I signalled for the valet to fetch my car. I’d been low-key gearing up to ask her out and hadn’t expected it to play out the way it did. Had I completely misread the signals?
I’d been checking her out from the time I spotted her in the corridor—lean, tawny skin, a pink glow to her cheeks. Not exactly my usual fare, but exactly my type. Feeling like a schoolboy at a burlesque show, I was unable to take my eyes off her. She’d been checking me out as well, I was sure of it. That was the only reason I’d tried that cheesy line—a low-effort job, admittedly, but one that worked every time in my club or at other parties and events. My face and neck felt impossibly hot, and my stomach ground again as my mind, like a dog with a bone, replayed over and over how she’d turned the tables.
If I were an attractive waitress, you’d be rubbing a handprint from your cheek right about now.
I cringed inwardly at the fateful line.Do you know who I am?How could I? I’d never stooped that low, but she’d surprised it out of me by threatening to have security walk me from my own hotel… well, my father’shotel.
The valet arrived with my car. I got in, closed the door, and sped out of the valet station toward my penthouse.
Hmmm… general manager.I definitely hadn’t seen that coming. She was different—independent, strong, and did not succumb to my looks or charm. Well, she was in for a surprise herself. She didn’t know who I was yet, but she was going to be in shock when she found out who was moving into the office next to hers.
My parents didn’t know I was back yet, and I wanted to keep it that way. Another couple of days of freedom wouldn’t hurt, especially before my father stripped me of it. A boys’ night out was just what I needed. And afterward, I knew exactly who would help me forget about Miss Tawny-skinned General Manager… for the whole night.
I thought about the last couple of months, and the many indulgences I’d enjoyed in Europe before the call that had brought me back to Vancouver. I’d relished the time abroad—the parties, the women, the nightlife. Hell, I was still considered an eligible bachelor, a title I wasn’t prepared to let go of just yet.
Time to look like my dashing self again. I scratched my beard and admired myself in the car window. Plenty more General Managers in the sea.
I strolled into my parents’mansion in Point Grey on Sunday morning. Greta, the help, greeted me with a smile. All eyes were on me when I stepped into the dining room.
My mother, Eleanor, came forward to kiss my cheeks, blinking back tears. With white-blonde hair tied neatly into a French knot and a pink plaid suit that brought out the colour in her cheeks, she looked every bit as elegant as the Queen of Jordan. “It’s good to see you after all these months. I’ve missed you.”
I was her favourite child, and I knew it. My father and older siblings had criticized her permissive parenting on several occasions. It was only because death had almost snatched me away when I was ten years old. The sting of the ice-cold water when I fell into the frozenlake… the screams of my brother and sister calling out for help… my arms and legs thrashing in the water to survive—the traumatic recollection of the incident sent a shiver up my spine.
“Uncle Caleb! Uncle Caleb!” the children screamed, getting up from the table and embracing me.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed, hugging them back. “I’ve got you all gifts.” I laughed. “Don’t squeeze me to death.” I didn’t know what kind of father I’d make, but I was born to be an uncle.
From those early moments in the hospital waiting room with my parents, I still remembered the pure joy that overcame me when I held them for the first time. The same was true when I first held my baby sister Catherine, whom everyone since day one has referred to as Cat. While living at my parents’ house, my mother had delegated the task of teaching the children to ride their bikes to me, starting with the successful two-wheeled launch of Adam, the eldest grandchild. Reading stories until they fell asleep, getting my nails painted by my nieces during tea parties, and building forts on the beach with my nephews were luxuries of being an uncle that I treasured.
Two years ago, after moving to my penthouse, feelings of loneliness and melancholy surfaced. My rescue dog, Cooper, made me feel whole again, although it would never be the same as having children in the house.
“How was your long vacation, baby brother?” Simon asked, his blue eyes looking coolly at me while he buttered his toast.
“It was fantastic. Not that you care, but thanks for asking.” I picked up an apple and bit into it.
