There were more small issues before breakfast, but I found time to go over Louisa’s list of helpful numbers and save many of them on my phone. In between, I called maintenance for an issue with a shower, and arranged a later checkout with reception. Soon enough, I was fairly sure that I could keep this up. I could actually be what I was hired to be.
Then, a guest whom I actually recognized lazily approached me from the far end of the foyer. They’d told me about him: a regular at the hotel, often had outlandish requests, and my job was to keep him as happy as I could. This was it. This was where I would really have to prove myself.
“Mr. Whitcomb,” I greeted him with a shallow bow.
He whipped his sunglasses off his face, his silver brows knitting tightly together. “Absolutely not. My name isReggie.That’s what you call me. Not ‘Sir’, not ‘Mr. Whitcomb’, not ‘His Royal Highness, the Best of the Best’, although, I gotta say, I have a soft spot for that one. But you call me Reggie. Got it?”
“Of course, Reggie,” I answered with a quick nod. “How may I help you this morning?”
“I booked the terrace for breakfast, didn’t I?” he asked, twirling his sunglasses between two fingers. He was dressed in a white linen shirt and pants, which contrasted starkly with the far-too-dark tan on his skin. It seemed like a stereotype, though I couldn’t really put my finger on which one.
I checked my computer. “You did. The kitchen will have everything ready for you shortly, S— I mean, Reggie.”
“Yeah,” he answered, stretching out the word. “No. Actually, I’ve changed my mind. No terrace for me today.”
It felt like there was more, so I said nothing and waited for him to reveal it.
“I want to go to Pebble Beach,” he finally said. “Little helicopter ride. That’s not a problem, is it?”
He started walking away, and I followed, with my phone already in my hand. “Not at all.”
I had a plan. I had the numbers I needed. If I could do this, then Mr. Klein would know that he could trust me, and so would the hotel staff. I wasn’t going to ask Louisa for any more help, or anyone else for that matter. This was up to me, and I was pretty confident that I could pull it off.
I dialed the kitchen and spoke to Reggie while I waited for them to answer. “Any particular menu you have in mind?”
“As long as it has fugu, I don’t care,” he replied, continuing down the hallway that led out to one of the gardens. “They just have to do it right, you know? Or I might have a small meltdown. Food disappointment is about the worst thing in the world.”
“Of course,” I agreed, despite being able to list a hundred worse things off the top of my head. Then the kitchen picked up. “It’s Adriana. Please cancel Reggie’s terrace booking. He’ll be taking the helicopter to Pebble Beach instead.”
“You’re kidding.” My introduction to Nolan, The Pacific’s executive chef, had been brief, but I recognized his voice instantly. He sounded less surprised than annoyed.
“Not kidding,” I said as firmly and confidently as I could.
A series of muttered curses filtered over the line before Nolan said, “Do you have any idea what I went through to get his damn fugu? Now I have to trash it, which is just perfect.”
Shit. I hadn’t considered that.
But my priority was the guest, and I took a breath. “Is there any way we can send it to Pebble Beach?”
Nolan scoffed, and Reggie balked in tandem, with me caught between their reactions, not knowing what I’d done wrong.
“You want me to eat old food?”
“This is The Pacific, not Uber Eats.”
“Uh…” I held up a finger to place Reggie on pause, my mind racing ten steps ahead. “Reggie sends his apologies to the kitchen, but he won’t be dining here for breakfast. I’ll arrange his meal directly with the staff at the country club.”
“Done?” Reggie asked brightly when I ended the call in the middle of Nolan’s tirade.
“Yes.” I pulled up the number for the country club. “I’ll just call through the arrangements for your arrival.”
He didn’t say anything, simply nodding before turning his attention away from me again. It seemed like he trusted me to get this done, and I wasn’t going to disappoint him. I would accept nothing less than perfection, either, given the sheer status of a place like this.
“Monterey.” The answer was prompt, but tired-sounding, like whoever it was had just started their shift and wasn’t looking forward to the day.
“I need you to prep a breakfast for Mr. Whitcomb—Reggie,” I said, correcting myself as soon as I noticed the warning look that he shot my way. “He’ll be arriving by helicopter shortly.”
“Reggie again?” The sigh from the other end of the line convinced me that this was the kind of thing he was known for. “Okay, sure, whatever. We’ll have the place ready for him.”
