Page 5 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“Check again.” I grip the edge of the desk, forcing my voice to remain level. “She confirmed she was staying here.”
More typing, slower this time, if that’s even possible.
The ring box weighs heavily in my pocket, a constant reminder of why I’m standing in this monument to mediocrity instead of overseeing the holiday gala at my Chicago property.
My phone vibrates. Mother. I pull it from my inner pocket, already knowing what’s coming.
“Darling!” Her voice hits that pitch that means exactly two glasses of champagne. “Have you done it yet? I’ve already called the wedding planner!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mother, it’s hardly appropriate to plan a wedding before?—”
“Nonsense! The Carlisle has a six-month waiting list for their grand ballroom. I had to call in three favors just to get them to pencil us in for June.”
The concierge’s fingers continue their glacial dance across the keyboard. I turn away, lowering my voice. “Nothing has happened yet. I’m still trying to?—”
“The Vandermeres are already asking if they should block off the entire month. You know how they love to make everything about them. And your father’s already discussing the merger possibilities with Rebecca’s father.”
“Mother.” The word cuts sharper than intended. I adjust my tie, catching my reflection in a mirror. “I need to go. The hotel staff requires my attention.”
“But darling?—”
“I’ll call you back.” I end the call, slipping the phone into my pocket where it sits like a brick beside the ring box.
The weight of expectations—Mother’s, Father’s, the Board’s—bears down on me. A perfect proposal for a perfect merger. No. A perfect marriage. That’s what this is about. Love, not business.
I turn back to the desk, where James has discovered a new level of typing incompetence.
My phone vibrates again, and this time it’s Rebecca’s name that lights up the screen.
Rebecca
Miss you so much, Bastian. Working through the holidays is torture without you.
I read the message twice, picturing her face. If she onlyknew I was standing in this sorry excuse for a hotel, trying to make everything perfect.
James is still making a show of searching his system. His performance would never survive a day at a Lockhart property. I catch my reflection. My hand rises automatically to brush an invisible speck from my lapel.
I step closer to the mirror, adjusting until it sits exactly center. The familiar motion steadies my pulse. Father’s voice echoes in my head. “Control what you can control, Son. Everything else is just noise.”
My fingers hover over the phone screen. I type back, each word measured.
Darling, I’m arranging a Christmas delivery for you. Need your room number to surprise you.
Perfect. Casual enough to avoid suspicion, and spoil the surprise, clear enough to get the information I need. I hit send and wait, watching those three dots dance across my screen.
I open my notes app, drafting a memo to our acquisitions team. “Alaska market research priority.” Below it I list the deficiencies: outdated infrastructure, untrained staff, lack of premium accommodations.
A complete renovation could serve as our flagship location. Modern luxury with rustic charm. High-end tourists would flock here for the northern lights with the right marketing.
Rebecca
Room 423. You’re so sweet thinking of me!
“Sir, I’m sorry but?—”
I raise my hand, silencing him mid-sentence. The gesture comes naturally. I’ve used it in countless board meetings. “Never mind. I’ve found it myself.” I turn to leave, then pause. “Actually, I’ll need a key card for room 423.”
James blinks rapidly, fingers hovering over his keyboard. “I’m sorry, Sir, but we can’t just?—”
