The Player + The Pact = I Do (New York City Billionaires #2)

Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

Jules

I’m officially the manager of The Mayfair. I’ve used up a chunk of my savings to dress the part in black trousers and a gray silk shirt. Oversized pantsuits were okay for Hart Developments, but this is the job. Everything has to be perfect. The only person who doesn’t get a uniform at The Mayfair is the manager. Still, these clothes feel like a uniform. Or maybe a costume—like it’s not quite me. Like it’s the grown-up version of me.

I check my hair and makeup in the mirror. My hair’s in a low bun, less severe than I’m used to. And I’m wearing my contacts. I’m ready.

My plan is to be on the ground, walking the floor as the manager. I know I’ve worked in the hotel, but I’m sure I’ll see things in a different light as the manager here. But I also really want to get to grips with what all the layers of deputy managers and shift manager do, and work out which of them don’t need to be here. It will take cost out of the operation, which I desperately need to do if I want to prove myself to Leo.

A knock on my office door catches me off guard.

“A flower delivery for you,” Joan says. Joan is the assistant to the management team. I’ve known her a very long time.

“Flowers?” I ask and pull the card from where it’s tucked in between the stems. The arrangement is luxurious, an abundance of light and dark pink roses in a vase.

I open the card and, even though I know they can only be from Leo, seeing his name on the little slip of paper makes my heart lift in my chest. He’s playing the part of the doting fiancé whose almost-wife just started a new job. I get it. But why do I like it so much?

The card reads, “Are roses on-brand? Good luck. Love, Just Leo.”

I hate him for sending me such an adorable message. I need him to be more on-brand than this. More of the Player Leo I know lurks under this sweet, sincere exterior. Basically, I need him to display far more asshole tendencies than he’s doing at the moment. Because if he keeps going the way he is, I’m going to forget what an obvious asshole he is and I’ll start to like him. Really like him.

Or maybe if he’s less of an asshole, I won’t find myself attracted to him anymore? Maybe that’s the way my freaky brain and damaged heart work.

Frankly, I don’t get much say on his level of asshole-ness, so I have to go with the flow and just make sure that whoever he is, asshole or not, I keep any feelings for Leo Hart at bay.

I barely saw him yesterday. He had to travel upstate to see a potential development and I spent the day trying to organize my room .

He came home after I’d gone to bed—which was, admittedly, pathetically early. But I wanted to arrive at the hotel early. I got here at seven. I don’t hate not having to commute from New Jersey. It was just as well that Leo wasn’t around on Sunday. I went to bed on Saturday after mac and cheese and three tequilas, my mind spinning and my heart racing, like I’d just come back from the best date ever. I welcomed Sunday without him. I got to recover and regroup. To remind myself that I’m not dating Leo. I’m not really living with him. We’re not roommates and we’re certainly not lovers. Even if he isn’t an asshole, he’s my boss. Like he said, I’m determined not to get fired.

“Shall I leave them on your desk?” Joan asks.

“Sure,” I say. “That would be great. If you need me, I have my radio, or I’ll be around reception or events.” The hotel staff need to see me around—to understand, however subtly, that a change in management means other changes are coming, too.

“Good luck,” Joan says. “And remember, you didn’t get this job to extend your circle of friends.” She winks at me and places the flowers on my desk.

I pause when I hit the lobby to take it all in. I know I don’t own this place, but right now, I feel like I do. This is the moment I dreamt of my entire childhood and most of my twenties. I need to appreciate it for what it is and for what it represents: years of hard work and determination.

Raised voices over at the reception desk catch my attention, so I go over to investigate. A couple is talking to Malika, one of our front desk agents, and things seem to be getting heated. I slip behind the desk and listen to their conversation. It’s clearly a problem over room allocation. Malika has been in her job for at least three years, and from what I’ve seen, she’s good at it .

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I interrupt, focusing on Malika.

“Mr. and Mrs. Pearson aren’t happy with their room assignment,” Malika says, her voice lowered.

I turn to the elderly couple, who are almost certainly tourists from the Midwest, and smile. “I’m very sorry to hear that. What exactly is your concern?”

“They want a lower floor,” Malika says.

At the same time, Mr. Pearson says, “My wife needs a window that opens. She feels claustrophobic with the windows closed at night. We requested a window that opens when we booked.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Pearson, can I get you a tea or a coffee while we sort this out for you?” I round the reception desk and guide them over to the lobby lounge.

“I’d love a coffee,” Mrs. Pearson says. “I’m just sorry to create a fuss,” she says, “but I won’t sleep. I just know I won’t.”

“Please don’t concern yourself. We’ll straighten this out.” I gesture over one of the lounge waiters. I don’t recognize him. “Coffee for the Pearsons, please, and put it on my tab.” I turn back to the guests. “I’ll be back with you shortly.”

I nod and turn back to the reception desk. I hope Malika has found a solution already.

“Occupancy is high today?” I ask as I approach her.

“Yeah,” she says, clearly relieved to have some distance from the Pearsons.

I glance over at Ali, the shift manager.

“We’re running at seventy-seven percent,” Ali says.

We have rooms available, but the need for a low-floor room shrinks the available pool of solutions to a shallow puddle. “Nothing’s open on the first floor?” I ask .

Malika sort of winces, and Ali approaches. “Everything on the first and second floors has already been allocated,” he says. There’s a bit of an edge to Ali’s tone that makes me glad he didn’t try to “help” with the Pearsons.

“Okay, let’s see if we can switch something out. We can’t have Mrs. Pearson up all night, can we?”

“But it wasn’t on their notes,” Ali says. “The rooms have been allocated. We don’t change them after they’ve been allocated.”

“What would you do if Taylor Swift checked in and wanted a first-floor room?” I ask.

“I’d ask her why she wasn’t at the Four Seasons.” He smirks.

It’s funny, but at the same time, if he thinks poorly of this hotel and is prepared to say so in front of me and another staff member, his attitude is likely showing through to guests, too.

“What would you do if it were your mom?” I ask him.

He almost rolls his eyes and starts tapping away on the keyboard. “I’d move this room—ten-twelve—to a higher floor, since they’re not checking in until this afternoon,” he says, pointing at the screen. “It gives them an upgrade and leaves space for the Pearsons.”

Well, that wasn’t hard.

“Okay, that sounds like a good solution.” I’m not quite sure why it wasn’t offered in the first place. “Malika, can you show the Pearsons to their room personally?”

Ali stands next to me, his mouth pressed into a disapproving line. It feels like he was deliberately obstructing a good check-in experience. Why would he act like that in front of his boss?

“Thanks, Ali. It’s so great you were able to solve that issue. ”

He gives me a tight smile, and I head over to the concierge desk to leave things to cool down a little.

I’ve always thought Ali was one of the highlights of The Mayfair staff. He’s so popular and always the life of any social gathering where we’re all together—the annual holiday party or a break-room birthday celebration. But I suppose I always saw him through the lens of being one of his co-workers. I hope he doesn’t make life difficult for me. I already have enough fires to put out. I don’t need to find new flames.

I cross the lobby and introduce myself to the two new members of the concierge team before heading back to my office. I’ve been churning over an introductory email to all staff, and Ali’s reaction this morning has just given me an idea.

I open the door to my office to the scent of roses. They really do look incredible. I’m not making an announcement at the hotel about my engagement to Leo. No one needs to know, and I don’t need anyone thinking my new role here is nepotism. Maybe some of them will find out, but even if they do, most of them won’t know Leo owns the place. All any of the staff care about is who their overall manager is. And that’s me. For now.

I sit at my desk and begin to type an email. I introduce myself, explaining my and my mother’s experiences in hospitality, how I’ve worked at The Mayfair in various roles, that I’m passionate about keeping the hotel in the top tier of New York hotels. More like I’m committed to getting us into the top tier, but there’s no point in saying that.

Finally, I announce that I will be leaving locked ballot boxes throughout the staff areas, and they should feel free to anonymously drop in the three changes they’d like to see in the hotel or the area in which they work. I reassure everyone that I’m the only person who will see anything posted in these boxes.

I know from experience that the people on the ground often know where problems are and how to solve them, but they don’t have a voice or are afraid to speak out. Even today, I got the feeling that Malika was uncomfortable providing the obvious solution to the Pearsons’ issue because she thought Ali would disapprove. No staff member should ever be concerned about doing what’s right to please our guests.

I suspect Ali is a block to a better experience on reception. But before I make changes, I want to give people a chance to have their voices heard.