The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(2)
I turn over the postcard.
Living the dream!
I love my sister, but … I hate her a tiny bit.
As I come in the front door, Mom steps out of her bedroom. She’s never been Brian’s biggest fan, so she frequently disappears when he’s around. She shakes a warning finger at me. “Don’t let him back into your life again, Rachel.”
“We have a kid together,” I say, heading to my room for a nap before work, ready to draw the blackout curtains on my world for a few hours. Ready for the anxiety fish to rest. “Like it or not, Brian is part of my life.”
“All I’m saying is, he’s never going to change.”
Mom has told me so many times that I can do better, but no matter how often I listen to Lizzo on repeat, there’s a quiet voice in the back of my head that wonders if Brian Schroeder is the best I’m ever going to get.
* * *
The hotel where I work is a Miami Beach luxury high-rise, but it also features private oceanfront bungalows that cost more per night than my mother’s monthly mortgage payment—and are nearly as big as our house. Celebrities and politicians are frequent guests, and we’re especially popular with foreign soccer stars and their families. Our VIP guests can call the concierge desk and get almost anything their hearts desire.
I’m not officially a concierge—at least not yet—but I’m the night reception manager, which means it’s my responsibility to meet the overnight concierge needs of our VIP guests. Most requests aren’t much different from those of regular guests: more towels, a pair of tweezers, an additional fluffy robe. But sometimes they get a little more creative. Like the parents who asked for thirty extra pillows so their kids could build a fort. Or the time I had to send one of our valets to the nearest all-night sex shop for an assortment of toys, including a leather riding crop. One regular guest wants a glass of raw milk with her 5:00 A.M. post-yoga breakfast, so we arrange a local dairy delivery every morning at four thirty—practically fresh from the cow—for the duration of her stay. And once, when I was nearly finished with my shift, the Beckham family required a security sweep for paparazzi in the seagrass around their bungalow before they stepped out onto the beach for the day.
Maisie is the biggest joy of my life, but working at Aquamarine runs an awfully close second. I love the atmosphere, the energy, and the pride in knowing our guests could have chosen any hotel in Miami Beach, but they chose ours because we’ll make sure their stay is as close to perfect as you can get.
It’s nearly ten when I clock in and log on to the digital concierge portal. Ms. Whitaker is staying with us tonight and the dairy has already been scheduled to deliver her raw milk. There are only a handful of requests for wake-up calls and early airport limousines, but anything can happen between 10:00 P.M. and 7:00 A.M.
Cecily peeks her head into the office. She’s been the evening concierge for the past ten years and I secretly covet her job. I don’t mind having to fetch sex toys for a visiting dominatrix, but Cecily was once tasked with buying a Maserati for a Saudi Arabian prince.
“Thought you should know that Blackwell is here,” she says. “He checked in earlier tonight.”
Peter Rhys-Blackwell is … well, no one is exactly sure what he does for a living. His Wikipedia entry calls him an entrepreneur, a promoter, and a real estate developer, but mostly he’s known for being seen with celebrities and splashing out cash like he prints it himself. He’s in his late sixties. Recently divorced from wife number four. He can be exceptionally generous and thoughtful, but according to the staff whisper network, he can also be racist, misogynistic, and homophobic. And I can attest to the fact that he has difficulty keeping his hands to himself. His behavior is tolerated because most of us can’t afford to do otherwise. Standing up to someone like Blackwell takes a safety net many of my coworkers don’t have.
“Appreciate the heads-up,” I say, offering a silent prayer that Blackwell is already asleep in his bungalow and stays that way for the rest of the night. Not likely, given that Miami Beach never sleeps, but one can hope.
I spend the first hour of my shift making late-night dinner reservations, booking car services, and ordering an extra-large anchovy pizza for a couple of drunk Australian rugby players camped out in the lobby. Right before my dinner break, I deliver a bottle of Tylenol to a guest with a pained back. After scarfing down a Publix Cuban sandwich and a Diet Coke, I return to the desk as the front doors swing open. Blackwell strides into the lobby wearing white Gucci driving loafers, a giant gold watch, and a pink Hawaiian shirt covered in parrots and palm leaves paired with white shorts. His cologne reaches me first.
I step out from behind the reception desk and give him a welcoming smile. The employee handbook requires it, but after this many years, it’s automatic. “Good evening, Mr. Rhys-Blackwell. Enjoying your stay at Aquamarine?”
“Always a pleasure to see you, Rachel.”
I’m surprised he knows my name until I remember I’m wearing a name tag. “You too, sir.”
“How’s your little one?” he asks, dipping a hand into the pocket of his shorts and pulling out a money clip. “A daughter, right?”
“Yes.” That he legitimately remembers I have a daughter softens me, and when my smile widens, it’s authentic. Talking about Maisie has that effect on me. Every single time. “She’s nearly four.”