Heron's Landing

A gallery, featuring not just Mike’s but other local artists’ and artisans’ work, took up the street level floor; his loft and studio took up the entire third floor. At the moment the second floor was vacant, but plans were for Harper Construction to turn it into a communal work space for Olympic Peninsula craftspeople.

The conversation, which Seth had admittedly not been looking forward to, flowed easily, covering the weather, always a topic in the wait-a-minute-and-it’ll-change Pacific Northwest; the pod of orcas they’d seen this morning, three calves breaching playfully; and the news that an award-winning woodcrafter from Seattle, who’d created artisan furniture for some of Seth’s wealthier clients, was close to becoming the first tenant to take space on the second floor of Mike’s building.

Since he’d been hired for the initial work, Seth had come to know both the building and the painter well. Remodeling, especially a building dating back to the late 1800s, was not for the fainthearted. Having been forced to be the bearer of bad construction news on more than one occasion, Seth knew Mike Mannion to be a patient and good man. One who’d treat his mom well.

Still, as he dug into his surprisingly not bad cremini mushroom meatloaf topped with cornbread made with organic cornmeal from Blue House Farm outside town, Seth realized that wherever this budding romance was headed, Caroline Harper might not be returning home. Which, as happy as he was to see his mother enjoying her life, meant that his already strained situation with his dad was about to get a whole lot worse.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ue863acc8-22fb-58a3-a098-408b0c188a21)

ONE OF THE things Brianna loved best about her profession was that, on any given day, she never knew what was going to happen at work. Which typically was nonstop. She needed to be ready for any question, any request, because, as she’d discovered, any guest could ask her anything. This morning, as she arrived at her office, her assistant, Brad, was waiting with her coffee. Something she’d never requested, but since he’d started the habit his first day and was inordinately proud of his French press, she certainly wasn’t going to turn him down.

“The man called,” Brad said before she’d even sat down at the cluttered work desk guests never saw. Which, because she’d insisted she couldn’t work on something that looked as if Marie Antoinette might have chosen it, was simply painted a fresh, clean white. The Cape Cod style reminded her of her Honeymoon Harbor roots and helped keep things in perspective when she spent sixty hours a week in a gilded palace. “He asked to see you as soon as you got in.”

That, in itself, wouldn’t have triggered any concern. Hyatt Huntington, general manager of both the resort hotel and the casino, was even more of a workaholic than Brianna, often boasting that he had no trouble getting by on three hours of sleep a night. There were many days when she’d arrived early to find a stack of messages already waiting. She had, after several weeks of sleepless nights, convinced him that she didn’t have his superpowers and could do her job much better if he stopped texting her all night.

Still, she couldn’t miss the seeds of worry in Brad’s normally smiling blue eyes. “Sure. Would you let him know I’m on my way?”

“Of course.”

With his romance cover model looks, Brad could have made a bundle in tips if he’d chosen to work on the casino floor. But, as she’d once done, he’d opted to work his way up the ladder, learning the ropes at previous hotels before this one, that would hopefully someday earn him entry into the prestigious Les Clefs d’Or. It had been Brianna’s membership in the international organization of concierges at the pinnacle of the profession, along with stellar recommendations from previous employers, that had won her this job, which had been the most sought-after position in the city.

Grateful for the burst of caffeine before meeting with the high-energy hotel manager, she took a sip of the perfectly brewed coffee. Oh, yes, with his ability to anticipate every need, Brad had a successful career ahead of him.

“Did he mention what it’s about?” The general manager usually sent her a blizzard of messages every day. Ones that Brad, who had to triage them by importance, had taken to calling Huntington’s snowflakes.

“No. But he didn’t sound very happy.”

“Then it’s situation normal.” Brianna never got called to her boss’s inner sanctum to be rewarded for a job well done. She was expected to provide guests with perfection. Anything less was unacceptable. Wondering if her furious physician had followed through on his threat to report her, she paused before leaving the office.

“Would you please check the latest Yelp reviews?” she asked Brad. “And text me if we’ve got a new negative one?”

“Sure. Let me do it now. It’ll just take a sec.” Without missing a beat, not bothering to inquire why, he began tapping on his computer.

Hopefully he wouldn’t find anything. But it was always good to be prepared.

Unfortunately, the review was already there. As soon as she got back from her meeting, she was going to have to take several deep breaths, switch from coffee to more calming tea, and respond. Bad reviews were never a good thing. But letting them go unacknowledged suggested the hotel didn’t care about its guests, which was even worse.

Brianna buttoned her jacket over her ivory silk blouse, smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles in her black pencil skirt, and ran a hand over her hair, which she’d coiled into its usual tidy chignon. Then, after changing from the flats she’d worn for driving into her official work pumps, she squared her shoulders and headed toward the express elevator leading directly to the executive floor.

Her boss’s secretary waved her right into his private office. The sympathy in the woman’s eyes was not encouraging.

The office, which was spacious enough to hold Brianna’s entire apartment, was situated at the very top of the Vegas strip high-rise, which not only offered real-time viewing of all the hotel’s public places on the multiscreen TVs that were duplicates of the ones in the security offices, but also a stunning view of the entire valley out the glazed window wall.

“Brianna.” Hyatt Huntington didn’t get up from behind his huge, imposing desk. Having seen the invoice when the Louis Quatorze polished black desk covered in ornate gilded friezes of lions’ heads and acanthus leaves had arrived, Brianna knew that the cost had topped twenty thousand dollars. Paid for by gamblers like the angry, Yelp-reviewing physician. Not only had Hyatt not stood up, as he usually did, he hadn’t wished her a good morning.

“Mr. Huntington.” Her three-inch heels clicked on the miles of marble as she approached the desk. Then, unsure whether or not she should sit down, Brianna stayed standing in front of him.

“It’s Hyatt,” he said on an exasperated breath. “I told you when this place opened two years ago that you needn’t be so formal when we’re in here alone together.” His brows dove toward his blade of nose. “And would you please sit down and stop looking as if you’re on the way to the guillotine?”

Resisting mentioning that the furnishings brought to mind all those executions after the French Revolution, Brianna sat down in the neoclassic reproduction chair on the visitor’s side of the desk. His own high-backed baroque chair with its red velvet upholstery could have belonged to the Sun King himself.

He might not be about to chop off her head, but the fact that he hadn’t offered her coffee and his hands were folded tightly atop the gilt leather desktop told Brianna what was coming. But rather than volunteer and risk telling him something he might not yet know—like that damn Yelp review—she folded her own hands and waited.

“I received a call first thing this morning,” he said.

Still she waited.

“From a guest. Does the name Dr. Aaron Michaelson ring a bell?”

“Yes. He was unhappy about a less than satisfactory experience he had at Bombay Spice.”

“Which he says you highly recommended.”

“No.” Brianna was not going to back down on this point. “He came to me with a printed-out page of reviews. As you undoubtedly realize, online reviews only reflect that one diner’s experience. I told him that Bombay Spice was one of the better Indian restaurants in the city. Then, after asking him what his favorite restaurants back home were, in order to get more information on his personal tastes, which turned out to be all steak houses, I recommended a few of those, as well. Including our own Chops, but I could tell that his mind was already made up when he arrived.”

“He was angry because there wasn’t any meat on the menu.”

“It states quite clearly on the restaurant’s website and the menu that it’s vegetarian. Perhaps he’s never heard of the concept of sacred cows?”

Realizing she’d come off snarky, Brianna held up her hand and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Did he happen to mention that I offered him a free meal here?”

“On a day he was checking out.”

“If he’d first complained when he’d returned from Bombay Spice, Greg, the night concierge, would have done the same thing.” He’d even have had his overpriced dry-aged prime steak delivered to the doctor’s damn room, which could have prevented him losing a bundle on the tables out of pique.

“I get your point. But he’s insisting you owe him fifty thousand dollars.”

“To which you told him, ‘No way,’ right?”

“Of course. The idea is ridiculous. You didn’t drag him down to the casino and force him to keep throwing his chips around the roulette table.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. Not that she’d expected Hyatt to take that complaint seriously, but it was encouraging that he found the idea as ludicrous as she had.

Her relief was short-lived.

“We came to a compromise.”

Her knuckles whitened from the pressure of her hands being squeezed together so tightly. “Oh?”

“I offered him the Golden Treasure suite, on the house, the next time he’s in town.”

“I assume he accepted.” King Midas himself might have found the suite blindingly overgilded. Which undoubtedly would suit the status-conscious doctor and his apparently privileged wife to a T.

“He did. After I assured him that you’d write him a note of apology.”

“What?” Brianna crossed her arms. “No. Period. Way.”

He arched a blond brow. It was not often that they were at cross-purposes. And never, in her two years of working together, had she ever refused a directive.