Page 15
I haven’t accepted the job. I haven’t decided where I’m going. I haven’t even worked out whether my entire former life can fit inside one broken down sedan.
But the market downstairs has cinnamon rolls, and for now, that is enough direction.
I grab the suite key, and skip out the door. The elevator is playing Christmas carols as I descend and my reflection slides across the mirrored walls with every passing floor. Freshly washed blonde hair, soft sweater and enough concealer beneath my eyes to hide most evidence that I abandoned a man at the altar yesterday.
A tiny wreath hangs above the control panel, filling the elevator with the scent of fresh pine while an instrumental version of Santa Baby attempts to make my descent toward unemployment feel seductive.
Then the doors open to reveal that the lobby has somehow become worse overnight.
The enormous Christmas tree now stands fully decorated beneath the central chandelier, its highest branches glittering with crystal stars while wrapped gifts spill across the marble around its base. Flames roar inside the two-story fireplace, waiters circulate with silver pots of coffee and snow drifts beyond the towering windows in soft white sheets.
It should feel peaceful, luxurious and magical.
Instead, it appears as though a new hockey team has arrived, and now thirty hockey players have turned it into an airport terminal for giants.
They occupy every available couch, surround the fireplace and tower over the reception desk while their equipment bags create an obstacle course across every inch of the floor.
One of them spots me leaving the elevator and beelines straight for me. He has wet blonde hair and shoulders wide enough to stop traffic.
“Excuse me, do you know where breakfast is?”
“I’m not—”
“Is it included with the rooms?” another asks.
“I don’t work—”
“Because the restaurant says we need reservations. But I haven't eaten for two hours, and I think I'm about to faint.”
A third man leans around his teammate. “What about room service? I heard it never closes.”
“It's true. They’ve got a twenty-four-hour menu,” one of them says. “Burgers, waffles, steak, pasta. Everything.”
The blond one turns toward him. “You’re saying I can order a steak at three in the morning?”
“Yep. I checked the app.”
"Gentlemen!" I sigh and hold up both hands. “I am wearing jeans, carrying no identification and I am currently surviving at the mercy of a festive billionaire wearing a red suit. Nothing about me suggests hospitality expertise, so I suggest asking at Reception.”
They all stare at me.
The first player points toward my sweater. “Sorry, ma'am. You just look… organised.”
Before I can defend myself against this accusation, a dark-haired woman in tailored black trousers and an immaculate cream coat cuts through the group. Gold buttons gleam at her wrists, diamond studs flash beneath the lobby lights and a slim tablet remains tucked securely beneath one arm, making her look like the expensive, terrifying answer to every problem currently breathing near reception.
“Breakfast buffet is through the arch beside the fireplace, boys. Room numbers ending in an odd digit eat until ten, even digits eat after ten, and if anyone moves another chair, Chef Priya has warned she will have it charged to your team.”
The players scatter immediately.
I watch them go and turn back to the expensively dressed woman, who now has both hands planted on her hips.
“That was terrifyingly effective,” I say.
“Professional hockey players respond well to schedules and financial threats. Trust me, I'm dating the most reckless of the bunch.” She extends her hand. “Darcy Madden.”
“Audrey Fields.” I take it before glancing around the enormous lobby. “So are you Big Mike’s daughter?”
"God, no!" Her laugh is an amused burst of sound. “My father owns Madden Hotels. His company built the resort. Big Mike provides the hockey, the unreasonable architecture requests and covers most of the operating bills.”
