Page 75 of Night and Day

After they’d left, I showered and changed. My headache was still there, but not getting worse, at least.

My phone dinged and I saw a message from Tessa. I scanned it.Damn. Her bar manager had called in sick, and she was filling in for the evening shift.

I shook my head. I don’t think any of my other hotel managers would fill in a shift at the bar. She’d asked if we could make dinner at nine PM.

I was about to return her text when I decided to head down and tell her in person.

As I entered the Bluff Bar, I ignored the throb in my temple. The bar had dark walls, elegant leather armchairs and stools, and cool lighting that ran across the dark ceiling. The place had an almost Art Deco touch of glamor to it, and behind the long, glossy bar were backlit shelves stacked with top-shelf bottles.

It was busy. Most of the chairs were filled and people were cradling drinks, and talking and laughing.

A loud burst of laughter made me turn. A group of men and women, in their late twenties, were seated by the window. Tessa—in black pants, a gray shirt, and a black vest and tie, was serving them. As one guy grabbed her wrist, she stilled.

My gaze narrowed. Yeah, the guy liked what he saw. I took a step in her direction, but then I watched her deal with the situation. She stepped back with a smile and a shake of her head. The smile was polite, but distant. Then, she headed back toward the bar.

I slid onto an empty stool at the end.

“Good evening.” From the other side of the bar, she smiled at me.

“Hey,” I said.

Her smile dissolved. “Headache again?” she asked softly.

I nodded. “I had lots of calls. Some good, some bad, and some rage-inducing.”

“The glamorous life of a billionaire hotelier.” She set a coaster down in front of me, then a complementary bowl of roasted nuts.

“Yeah. Endless meetings, decisions that affect so many people, lots of paperwork.”

“And headaches. Let me get you a drink.”

She turned away and I watched her expertly mixing things. She shook everything up in a shaker, then poured it into a long glass.

I sipped. “There’s no alcohol in this.”

“No. You want your headache to go away, not get worse. It’s a special drink blended with a bunch of fruit juices and ginger. It’ll help the headache and hydrate you. And—” with a flourish she set some pills down on the bar—“ibuprofen.”

“I’ll run through your stock.” I reached for her hand. She tangled her fingers with mine.

“I don’t mind. I’d prefer you look after yourself and didn’t push yourself so hard.”

I swallowed the pills. When was the last time someone had worried about my health?

Never. That was a depressing thought.

“I have a demanding job. It comes with the territory.”

She made a face. “You can do the job without running yourself into the ground, Langston. Delegate. Take a few breaks.”

“I’ve deals to close. Work that needs me present and focused.”

She met my gaze. “You do your job well, Ro. Everyone sees that. You’re not your father. You don’t need to push so hard to prove that.”

I just stared at her. Someone farther down the bar called for a drink. She held my gaze for another beat, then moved down the bar to see to the order.

I ran my finger through the condensation of my glass, thoughts churning. Was I pushing too hard? Everything I did was to make Langston Hotels a success.

But was my father—or rather, how I felt about him—still dictating my choices without me realizing?