Page 9 of Twist of Fate
Fortunately, my trip to the hotel is quick, and I have just enough time to grab my key and store my luggage in my room before the welcome meeting. I’ve stayed at this hotel so many times that several of the staff greet me on my way up. A woman from the concierge, returning from a room, gives me a flirty wave. I politely nod, my body not reacting in the slightest to her.
Just physical, huh?
Even I know I’m lying to myself. But lying is the only thing I can do. Admitting that girl from last night was something more won’t do me any favors. Not when the last image I have is of her disappearing around that corner—forever.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I step into the hallway.
Pocketing my room key, I pull it out and see a text from my dad.
Da
Call me when you get back in town. Good luck on your tour.
I stare at it far longer than I have time for, hoping to decipher some hidden meaning buried between those two short sentences.
But I come up short.
Like with most things involving my complex relationship with my father, I am left utterly clueless. Our relationship has always been…frosty. But since his ultimatum nearly two years ago, our communication has gone nearly glacial.
We talk only when absolutely necessary, and although I’m still dead set on proving myself to him, there won’t be any ass-kissing involved.
I let out a sigh as I scrub a hand down my face and head toward the elevator.
“Finn?”
I turn to see a familiar-looking couple headed my way.
Shit, shit, shit.
Why now? I don’t have time for this now.
I plaster on a wide, welcoming smile and turn to the older couple. They’re repeat customers—of that I’m sure—and just like all the others before them, I don’t have a fucking clue what their names are. So, I morph into tour guide mode and say, “Just couldn’t stay away, could you?”
They laugh as I extend my hand, giving a firm handshake to the husband and a warm hug to the wife.
“It’s great to see you,” the husband says. I take an extra moment to look at him. He’s tall and thin but fairly fit for his age. Brown eyes and pale, weathered skin suggest he has seen his fair share of sun. His hair is mostly silver, with streaks of dark brown woven through it.
That description likely fits about half of the demographic that travels with us, as a significant portion of the tourists visiting Ireland are those seeking their heritage. I sometimes feel guilty for forgetting most of them, but after two years in this job, every week tends to blend together.
In the beginning, I could remember everyone—every single name. But eventually, there were too many faces, and I just couldn’t keep up.
“Are you headed off to the pub?” I ask, hoping they don’t notice I haven’t addressed them by name.
“Yes,” the wife answers. “Seems great minds think alike.”
I slip into this alter ego of mine well, laughing right on cue at her attempted humor as the three of us make our way down the hall. We continue to chat in the lift and eventually, I learn the husband’s name is Paul.
It’s like a lightbulb switching on in my brain.
That’s right—Paul and Tina from Minnesota.
A flood of memories come pouring in from one of my earlier tours, and I breathe a sigh of relief. If I remember correctly, they were a lovely couple to spend a week with and will be easy to manage.
Super chatty but lovely.
“Finn.” Tina gestures to a group of women clustered together near the entrance of the pub. There are four of them, and if I had to guess, I’d say they are in their mid to late forties. Well-dressed, they’re dripping in expensive perfume and jewelry. “We met these ladies this morning over breakfast. They’re all from Arizona, and it’s their first time in Ireland. They left their husbands and kids at home.” She laughs.
A moms’ trip. Always a winning combination for me.
