Page 34 of The Player + The Pact = I Do

“Good compromise,” I say, taking a mouthful of mac and cheese. I groan. “This is so good.”

“It’s homemade mac and cheese,” she says. “Of course it’s good.” She grins at me and forks up a mouthful of pasta.Her eyes flutter closed, and I can’t take my gaze off her. “It’s good.”

I nod, and we continue to eat in happy silence, the ring glinting on her finger, just like we’re an engaged couple having dinner together. And it’s easier to believe than I thought possible. The woman opposite me is funny, ambitious, beautiful, and great company, and I’ve enjoyed tonight more than I thought I would. I’ve just got to make sure I don’t step over the line. I can’t fuck this up. For either of us.

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 isthejob. Everything has to be perfect. The only person who doesn’t get a uniform at The Mayfair is the manager. Still, these clothesfeellike 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.”

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