Page 42 of Last Resort

She’s good with people. She can read the room and tell Brady is worried he’s stepped on her toes. It’s something not everyone can do.

Brady moves around his desk, out of my sight, and I presume over to hers. “Are you going off that website?”

“No. I’ve cross-checked about ten ‘best-of’ lists and have curated the ones that are duplicated the most. I figure that will give me the best feel of what people are wanting when they visit the island.”

“Smart.”

“Here’s the list I’ve made so far.”

Brady makes an approving hum. “These are ones I would have picked as well. Why is that one highlighted?”

“Because that, my friend, requires tickets and I plan on making sure I have one.”

“To One-Night-Stand Land?”

And before the last word is out of Brady’s mouth, I am up and out of my seat, casually strolling into their office with my hands in my pockets to prevent them from fisting.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Sutton here is going to be the guinea pig and try out all of the ‘best ofs’ for the island so we can make ours better. Including, singles night at Isla del Mar.

Singles night?

“Oh. I thought I heard something different,” I murmur.

“You did,” Sutton says more than enthusiastically. I turn to look at her, take in her tumble of hair falling over her shoulders and dark pink shirt, but it’s the smile on her face and look in her eyes that grabs my attention. Mocking. Amused. “Brady called it One-Night-Stand Land. That’s what it’s often referred to in some of the reviews.”

I purse my lips and nod. “I thought it was understood that we’re trying to target a higher-end clientele. One-Night-Stand Land doesn’t exactly denote class, Sutton.”

Her back straightens. Yes, I just insulted both of us if for no other purpose than to get her attention.

And it worked.

Her eyes fire with anger.

“I’m well aware of the market we’re catering to in the property’s makeover. But that market—the single, rich kids who take their private jets down here to throw away Daddy’s money on the Instagram vacations, frequent that place in droves.”

“Your point?” I ask.

“My point is we have a club on the premises that hasn’t been anywhere near fifty percent capacity since the club at Isla del Mar started doing singles night last year. And what I learned from talking to the manager this morning is that those socialites ready to spend Daddy’s money go there because there is nowhere else for them to go on the island. My bet is those clients want upscale. They want to go where they can get bottle service and velvet ropes of a VIP section like they get back home. They want to be treated like royalty so they can have fun while not having to mix with the little people.”

“This is the Caribbean, not Manhattan.”

“They want what they want and will go to the places that provide it.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms over her chest.

“And?” I ask.

“And we have a club that can provide that for them. We fancy it up. We make capacity limited for non-resort guests, maybe a lottery you have to apply for—something like that—because clearly whatever is off-limits makes people want it more, wouldn’t you agree?” she asks, lifting a lone eyebrow to drive that point home.

“For some, yes.” I lean against the doorjamb, knowing she has a damn good point.

“Sometimes the allure of something is more potent than actually having it,” she says.

“And other times it’s not worth the hassle,” I say, slowly turning to meet her eyes. There’s a defiant lift to her chin and a smirk on that fuckable mouth of hers.

“It works. I’ve seen it happen before at another resort I consulted on.”

“So that’s your plan? Tease them with the allure?”