Page 6 of The CEO Enemy

The Westerlyn Hotels. Short: WH.

They are a small chain comprised of four hotels spread throughout the East Coast. Nowadays, I work out of the New York City branch.

My fellow co-owner is a kind older man named Norman Whitman. Five years ago, he sold me an equal share of the hotels, establishing a 50-50 ownership split, in the hope I’d assist him in restoring them back to their former glory. A significant advantage of equal ownership lies in its inherent fairness. Norman and I are in this together, equally committed to making this business a success.

Luckily, we’re always on the same page, so deadlocks are not a concern for us.

Dropping my life savings into the failing hotel chain drew plenty of “you’re crazy” comments. Let me tell you, the journey to my dream wasn’t all sunshine, pancakes, and cute parakeets. But, as we near the quarter’s end, the hotel is on a streak with two back-to-back profitable runs—nothing flashy, but hey, a win is a win, especially in these challenging times.

My first stop is the main lobby.

Construction crews finished right on schedule and walking through the bright, remodeled entrance makes my heart swell. They have brought the original mahogany woodwork back to its past magnificence, and the wood grain tile floors have been polished to perfection. I can see my reflection as I walk across them past the tulips that grace the room and contribute to the inviting atmosphere. All the old lobby furniture has been replaced with new fresher items, without sacrificing comfort, and the walls on the left and right are filled with local artwork, depicting iconic New York City scenes. However, the central piece for the lobby is still pending. I attempted to secure tickets for a charity auction where my favorite native New York artist is set to reveal her latest undisclosed artwork, but unfortunately, they were all sold out. When my aunt called for assistance, everything else had to take a back seat.

“Good morning, Ms. Summers, how lovely to have you back,” the front desk manager, Emma Simpson, says with a bright smile, and gets up to give me a hug over the counter. She’s in her late fifties, originally from England, and had been working at the hotel long before Norman or I took over.

“It looks great in here,” I say, my eyes sweeping across the room. “That crew did an amazing job.”

“They really did,” Emma agrees. “I’m so relieved I won’t need to direct guests around the ongoing construction any more. It looks like we’re finished with the room renovations now, is that right?”

“Most of them. We’re still planning a few finishing touches on the suites. And deciding on the main art piece for the lobby. How are we looking?”

Emma’s smile grows wider. “Reservations just snapped up the last available room, which means we’re fully booked for the rest of the month.”

Excitedly, I knock on the counter. “That’s what I like to hear. Have you seen Norman?”

“He’s not in yet, Ms. Summers.”

Hmm, that’s somewhat unusual. On weekdays, he typically arrives first. “All right, thanks.”

I leave the lobby and head for Operations.

When I arrive, the crowd of housekeepers is already dispersing to go about their business.

I poke my head into the big office and smile. “Good morning, Pauline!”

Pauline Kent, Director of Housekeeping and certified best friend since childhood, looks up from her computer. “Have I told you how annoyingly cheerful you can be in the mornings?” she quips in her low, deadpan voice, only the subtlest hint of a smirk gracing her lips.

“You’re only saying that because you’re jealous.”

“I’m saying that because it’s true.” She gets up to wrap one arm around me in a hug, pressing her big motherly bosom into me.

“You look like you need this,” I say, handing her the holder with her cinnamon latte with oat milk, plucking out my iced French vanilla with a shot of espresso.

“Glad to have you back, Jess. How’s your aunt’s leg?”

“Thanks, doing much better,” I say, propping myself on the edge of the desk. “Did you hear the great news?”

Pauline takes a sip of her latte and leans back in her chair. “Yup. Sold out for the month.” She lifts her hand for a high-five, which I happily grant. “I’m proud of you. Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Whitman is a sweetheart, but he would still be running around like a chicken with his head cut off if you hadn’t swooped in.”

I smirk and reach over to playfully flick her nose. “I’m going to remember you said that any time you want to mention how crazy you thought I was for buying into these hotels.”

“Oh, you were absolutely batshit to do what you did. Especially after what happened with Mr. Asshole Ex.”

“Ugh, don’t ruin my good mood by mentioning him. Besides, I have something much better we can talk about.”

Pauline arches an eyebrow with interest. “Oh? Do tell.”

“I met my new neighbor.”

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