The other man was sitting in the guest chair, his back to the door. “I just need to send a…” he said, standing but keeping his head down as hetapped something into his phone. “And… done.” He thumbed it off and looked up. “Hi, Dad. Sorry about that.”
Then he looked at me and gave me a thousand-watt smile, extending his hand.
“Hi, Nyah. We haven’t been introduced. Caleb Evans.”
4
NYAH
“You!” The word burst out of me before I could stop it.
He was the handsome letch from the restaurant.
My mouth opened again, and for a moment I thought more words might come out, but there were none. Numbly, I let him take my hand and shake it, not even registering the contact.
“You two know each other?” Randall asked, ushering us into the office and guiding me toward a casual meeting space with armchairs and a settee.
“He assaulted me,” I said, not sure why those words were the ones that came out.
Randall looked like I’d slapped him, but then the other man—Caleb… good God, it’s Caleb Evans—stepped in and guided his father to the settee.
“That’s not quite true,” he said, calmly lowering the temperature. “Although I did proposition her. Poorly. And unwelcomingly, if that’s a word.”
Randall frowned at me, seeking confirmation. I nodded and sat down in the armchair.
Caleb turned back to me, fixing me with anearnest look. “And I do apologize. I should have done so at the time.” He paused. “By which I mean, I’m sorry. I used poor judgment.”
Randall laughed, lightening the moment. “Not for the first time around a beautiful woman, I might add.”
“This is true,” Caleb said, nodding sagely at both implications—that he’d behaved poorly before, and that I was indeed very beautiful. “But Nyah straightened me out. I’d be grateful for a second chance if she’d let me start over.” He extended his hand again, brows narrowed, looking very contrite indeed. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Caleb Evans.”
My heart was still pounding, though I’d come back down out of fight/flight/freeze mode. As far as apologies went, Caleb’s had been… well, perfect. Was it heartfelt? Time would tell. Steeling myself, I held out my hand.
“Nyah Rodriguez. Pleased to meet you, too.”
Caleb sat forward, smiling broadly, and took my hand. That same electric charge I’d felt when he’d taken the champagne from me fizzed through my fingertips, and suddenly the trepidation was gone, replaced by an assault of fresh sensations—the smell of his cologne, the sharp line of his beard stubble, the gentle squeeze of his hand.Why did this man make me feel so…?
I retrieved my hand, and Randall explained to us both that I was to take Caleb under my wing and introduce him to the various departments throughout the hotel. Whatever I had done to acquaint myself with operations, I was to do the same with him.
Randall looked at Caleb. “You will learn much from her. She manages a hotel like a woman possessed.” Then he turned toward me. “If he ends up half the manager you are, my dear, I shall have to put you in charge of training across the chain.”
He said it lightly, but I recognized the earnestness beneath the tone. There was undoubtedly a promotion in this for me, and the only thing standing in my way was Randall’s possibly misogynistic, but handsomely enigmatic son.
The gardener would have been easier.
When I’d acceptedthe General Manager’s job, the first thing I’d done was get up from my desk and walk a mile in everybody else’s shoes. Front desk and concierge, of course, I already knew, but the restaurant—both kitchen and front of house—valet, function rooms, even housekeeping and laundry—I’d spent two weeks, sometimes more, understanding the challenges of the staff and managers I would lead.
And this was exactly what I had planned for Caleb.
How the team would react to the owner’s son in their midst, I didn’t know, so I started gently by first showing him around.
He was politely interested in touring the booking desk and my old domain, Guest Services, shaking hands and asking the occasional question. It was hard not to see him as a visiting dignitary, though—I’d seen the same smiles and nods from the Prince of Wales the last time he’d breezed through Canada. Would I ever get Caleb in an apron, scrubbing a toilet or running laundered underwear up to a suite? Probably not, but it was amusing to imagine.
His interest kicked up when we moved back into the offices. He engaged Will Burke from Marketing in an animated discussion about luring big spenders into four-day weekends instead of three. Will said they’d tried Thursday-night restaurant vouchers and complimentary spa packages, and while there’d been a small uptick in bookings, it hadn’t translated into increased business through in-room services, the bar, or the specialty shops in the lobby.
Caleb just smiled and shook his head. He perched on the edge of Will’s desk and gave him a come-to-Jesus speech about marketing to rich people. “With packages,” he said, “not discounts. Give them something money can’t buy—a Captain’s Table dinner with my father and whatever A-listers we can shake out on the night. And charge them for it—a thousand a head.”
“A thousand? Dollars?”
