Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
I roll my eyes. “We’re on a private floor, Miss Renee.”
“And there’s no security camera between the elevator and your room?”
Fuck.
Why does she have to think of everything?
I sigh. “You may need a new disguise tomorrow. Can you dye your hair black?”
She grimaces, darting me a dirty look when she realizes I’m joking.
“Whatever. We’ve got this, one way or another.”
“I’d like it if you could find out whatever you can about the negative reviews. I’ll keep an open mind to real problems. If there are holes in our services, you’re far more likely to find them than me or anyone else in my senior circle.”
“Right,” she whispers.
“We’re on it, Mr. Winthrope!” Jennifer chimes in.
“Anything else?” Piper asks.
I shake my head. “I’ve got another engagement across town this evening. I’ll leave you two to plan out your spy games.”
I see the girls out and head downstairs where the driver I’ve hired from Fluff Rides waits. Ridiculous name aside, it’s supposedly the best in this city. The company was started by Nick Brandt’s wife, once a driver herself.
“Where to?” he asks.
“Oasis Springs.” Those words taste like mud.
It’s barely ten minutes across town. Still too long.
My blood boils a few degrees hotter on the ride over.
The car stops in front of a tall, older hotel that proclaims itself historic on every welcome sign, but this place is no Palmer House.
How the fuck are the same people who keep review bombing my hotel reviews praising this?
It’s nothing special.
Hell, I never expected anything owned by Apollo Finch to be glamorous—no matter how much he pays media jackals to kiss his ass—but my grandparents put time and love and brains into Winthrope Chicago.
When I saw Oasis Springs had a higher rating than we do now—north of four stars—I had to see it for myself.
I wish I fucking hadn’t.
It’s tired, a frozen snapshot of hotel glamor from the early 1990s.
Even the outside looks dusty, old, and dark.
This place hasn’t been remodeled or updated or probably deep cleaned in years.
Whatever. I stomp through the lobby into the dimly lit bar and order a shot of straight vodka.
“Comin’ right up,” the bartender says.
Even the marble counter doesn’t have a shine.
Yeah, no.
This shabby hotel beating my ass to a pulp doesn’t add up.
It’s not just the glaring fact that they magically have better reviews.
The industry award conference will be coming up soon, and Finch is flogging this horse into the running.
Winthrope won the last fourteen years in a row. If I don’t claw back our reputation soon, we’re not making it to fifteen.
I can’t let that happen, much less lose to a clown like Apollo Finch. The last time he was nipping at our heels, his life spun out. Everyone heard about his messy divorce, the abuse allegations, the stint in rehab he had for months after Gramps stole the trophy he was expecting that year.
Another reminder my grandparents left me in good hands.
What the hell will they think if we fall on our face the instant their coattails wear off?
A shot glass slides in front of me from the other end of the bar.
Finally.
I toss it down and order a brandy, the same drink I had with Piper in Lanai.
If only this trip was just another carefree adventure with her. Not this glorified spy game that’s got me chasing my own tail.
In another life, I’d get to the bottom of her problems. I’d run them the fuck away, no matter how difficult.
Then I’d give her so much more than a bittersweet kiss and a sky lit with cold stars.
This time, I’d damn well finish the job in my room, even at the risk of making our lives a hellscape.
Idiot. She’s not why you’re here, a voice reminds me.
I drink my brandy and order one more to banish my wishful thinking.
That voice in my head is right.
I wish like hell I could listen long enough to keep my mouth off hers.
“Something on your mind, pal?” The bartender must notice the thunderhead hanging over me. “Hey, hold up. You look familiar. Don’t you own the Winthrope hotels? I watch the business shows.”
Shit.
So much for spy games.
I should have kept a lower profile, but the guy seems decent enough.
No point in lying.
“Yeah, that’s me. Just came here for a little peace without my own people falling all over me. I can always sense the stress rolling off them when they realize who I am. Here’s an extra tip if you help me find it—and keep quiet.” I pull a crisp hundred from my wallet and slide it over.
He grins like I just passed him a winning lotto ticket.
“You want another brandy? On the house.”
“Sure.”
“That stool draws success like a magnet, you know,” he says as he slides the glass back in front of me.
I look up at him, waiting.
“It’s Mr. Finch’s favorite seat every time he’s in town too.”