The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(7)

My phone rings with a call from Cecily. We usually only see each other when she’s going off shift and I’m coming on, so we’re not close, but I guess I’d call her a friend.

“I heard what happened,” she says. “Jack said you were pursuing other opportunities, but Charlton told me the truth. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Scattered,” I say. “One minute I get so angry, I want to punch something, and the next I want to cry. The minute after that, it doesn’t seem real. I keep pinching myself, hoping it’s a nightmare.”

“You haven’t had time to process,” Cecily says. “But one of the reasons I called is because I have a lead for you. One of my college sorority sisters used to be married to a guy who is starting up a brew hotel—kind of a hybrid microbrewery and boutique hotel—and he’s looking for someone to manage it.”

“That sounds great, actually. I love specialty hotels.”

My secret someday dream is to own my own hotel, something like the little art deco boutique hotels on Collins in Miami Beach, with just a few cozy rooms and a small restaurant with patio seating.

“The catch is that it’s in Ohio,” Cecily says.

“Oh.” I’m a little disappointed. “Maybe not.”

“I thought the distance might make it a long shot,” she says. “But I’m going to text you his information anyway. If your situation changes, you’ll have it.”

“Thanks again.”

“I wish … I’m sorry … I’m not…” She trails off, leaving me to fill in the blanks. I understand what she can’t bring herself to say. If Cecily had been sexually harassed out of a job, I don’t know if I would have spoken up on her behalf. Would her standing in solidarity with me have made a difference? Or would we both be unemployed? My face flushes with shame, but the instinct toward self-preservation is strong. Especially when you’re living paycheck to paycheck.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I appreciate you calling to check on me.”

“Hang in there.”

“I will.” I let out a small, mirthless laugh, thinking about four years of waiting around for Brian. “I’ve gotten pretty good at that.”





CHAPTER 3



Desenrascanço

Portuguese

“the act of disentangling oneself from a difficult situation by using all available means to solve the problem”



“So, most of our bookings are for a single night,” Ed says, leading me behind the reception desk during my orientation for the night reception manager position at the Sunway Hotel in Fort Lauderdale.

I was only unemployed for two days before I landed this job. Technically, it’s the same job I had at Aquamarine, but the atmosphere is wildly different. The tiny Sunway lobby is decorated with dusty fake palm trees and chairs that look like they haven’t been updated since 1988. There’s a janky ATM in the vestibule, and the reception desk looks like a wall, making me wonder if the desk clerks frequently find themselves in need of a protective barricade. The general manager is wearing jeans and sneakers with his company-issued golf shirt, which is oddly informal to someone who wore a skirt and heels every night. And is currently—apparently unnecessarily—wearing a skirt and heels for her first day on the job.

“Our guests are basically just looking for a place to crash before their early-morning boarding calls on the cruise ships at Port Everglades or flights out of FLL,” Ed continues. “They roll in late and check out early. Night desk is busier here than a lot of other hotels.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I like busy.”

“Once in a while you’ll get a homeless person hanging out in the lobby, especially in January and February, when the temperature dips,” he says. “They usually leave when you ask, but if they get belligerent, call the cops. Oh, and if anyone calls the front desk to complain about fighting, take down the room number where the fight is happening and call the cops. Don’t engage.”

Working at this hotel when the weather turns cold enough for homeless people to loiter is not the future I imagined for myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped at the first job offer I got, but I don’t know how to sit around and do nothing. I nod and fake a smile. “Got it.”

Ed walks me through the checkin and checkout processes, introduces me to daytime staffers I may never see again, and takes me on a tour of the property. The hotel is made up of three four-story buildings with a pool in the middle. There’s a charcoal grill and a few picnic tables, one of which is occupied by a couple of housekeepers taking a smoke break. One of them gives Ed the finger under the table, but he’s too busy talking to notice.

Our next stop is a hotel room. The floors are gray tile—a smart choice because carpets in hotel rooms are disgusting—and the beds are covered with industry-standard white duvets, but even updated fixtures in the bathroom can’t completely disguise the shabbiness. Most of these guests probably don’t care, but the rooms and bungalows at Aquamarine were immaculate in comparison.

After two hours of orientation and training, Ed sends me home. As I hurry to my car, I try to look for the silver lining of this job. My daily commute has dropped by twenty minutes each way and I no longer need to use the interstate, but I can’t seem to muster much excitement about saving gas money.