Page 124 of The Business of Love Box Set 1: Books 1 - 4

KATIE

H op, the big Russian who worked the morning shifts in the cafe and the evenings in the cigar lounge, already had my drinks sitting on the counter ready for me to pick them up that morning when I came down from my suite.

He greeted me with his classic smile and a nod of his big bald head. “Good morning, Katie.” His voice was as deep and rough as he looked.

I’d always wondered how he ended up working at a place like this.

The hotel, El Cartana, was a luxurious place that stood proud and unrivaled upon a rocky outcropping jutting out over the ocean.

It had multiple levels, and different areas of the hotel crept down the rock face, giving it a feel of being one with the shore.

Down below was a private section of white sandy beach, and up above was the tower, which boasted high-class rooms with nearly three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the island.

It did not seem like the sort of place a tough-looking Russian man might willingly choose to work.

“Good morning, Hop,” I said cheerfully as I popped the lids on the three coffees, a caramel latte, an Americano with two pumps of hazelnut, and a black coffee with a splash of almond milk and vanilla syrup. “How’s the day so far?”

Hop wiped his hands on a sanitizer towel and braced himself on the counter. “Good. Busy. You know how I like busy. Makes the hours fly by. And yours?”

I tucked the coffees into a tray. “Is it ever anything other than busy?”

He let out a deep, rumbling laugh, and shook his head at me. “You need a day off, Katie.”

“Sixteen straight,” I said. It had been a long stretch of work days.

But I couldn’t pick and choose what dates my clients wanted to come to the hotel.

As the honeymoon coordinator, I couldn’t take time off simply when I wanted it.

They trusted me to make this vacation special and I would not let them down.

I had to admit though, my feet were pretty damn sore.

Wearing five-inch pumps for ten hours a day every day for sixteen days had done a number on my feet.

I had blisters on both heels and the sides of my pinky toes.

Today, I’d opted for a three-inch wide-heeled sandal-type heel.

It was still professional but a lot more comfortable than what I’d been suffering in for two weeks.

“I’ll get a day off eventually. Don’t worry about me, Hop. Thanks for the coffees. I’ll see you this evening in the cigar lounge?”

“Your cocktail will be waiting for you.”

“What’s it going to be tonight?”

Hop considered the question and scratched his clean-shaven square chin. “Something citrus focused, I think. Your dress inspired me.”

I laughed and turned from him to call over my shoulder. “I look forward to it.”

My orange dress was new. I’d spotted it in a boutique window the last time I went to visit Jackson in Nashville before he moved to New York City.

I’d only worn it a handful of times and I supposed Hop never saw it.

He always commented on my clothes, especially when they were bright colors like this one.

I made my way through the lobby. The men and women working behind the check-in counter all looked up and waved as I passed. I returned their enthusiastic greetings but kept my pace. I had places to be.

I stepped out into the morning sun and the heels of my shoes clicked along the brick path that wove through the massive courtyard gardens.

Couples sat on benches with their morning coffees.

Women rested their heads on their husbands’ shoulders.

Husbands ran their fingers through their wives’ hair.

Same-sex couples sat huddled against each other on blankets on the grass, fingers entwined, lips locked together in a display of intimacy that wouldn’t get them in trouble here.

Love was love.

At the El Cartana, partnerships of all and every kind were celebrated, and that was something I was proud of.

I smiled to myself as I passed more lovebirds and eventually made my way to the main tower, where I rode the elevator up to the top floor to the Diamond Honeymoon Suite.

The door was ajar, propped open with a chrome doorstopper.

I stepped inside. The air conditioning was on and music was playing.

It was a familiar upbeat tune but I didn’t know the words.

Sunlight reflected on the recently polished white marble floors and it took my eyes a minute to adjust to the glare.

I found my two assistants, Roman and Ginny, steaming the sheer white curtains.

“Coffee delivery for my favorite people,” I said as I set the tray of coffees down on the glass coffee table.

Ginny abandoned the steaming machine and made for her coffee. She turned the labels out, reading each one, and found hers with a G slapped on the side in permanent marker. She grinned, pulled it free, and lifted it to her lips. “Does anyone make a better latte than Hop?”

“Nope,” I said, freeing my black coffee from the cardboard tray. I took a sip and savored the rich flavor on my tongue.

Ginny held her cup in both hands and breathed in the caramel smell of her latte through the small hole in the lid. “Delicious. Thanks, Katie.”

Ginny had worked with me for over four years.

She’d started at the El Cartana as a clerk at the check-in counters but had been quickly promoted to customer relations, where she mostly answered phones and emails and took care of disgruntled guests.

The work crushed her spirit, and by that point, she and I had become friends, so I spoke with the owner, pulled a few strings, and brought her on as my first assistant.

When my career took off and I became the main reason why people wanted to come to the hotel, I was granted another assistant, Roman.

Roman finished steaming his side of the curtains and stepped dramatically through them like a fashion model, pausing to give us a glorious spin on the heel of his powder-blue shoes. “What did sweet Hop make me this morning?”

“Hazelnut Americano,” I said.

Roman clapped his hands together gleefully.

He wore several rings and his nails were painted a shiny nude color.

For a while there, he’d been sporting fuchsia and purples, but I had to ask him to tone it down and go for more neutral shades to adhere to the hotel dress code.

I preferred the jovial colors myself, but rules were rules, and the El Cartana ran smoothly because of them.

He and Ginny were polar opposites.

Where Roman was out and loud and more than a little opinionated, Ginny was quiet and reserved. She worked best in a quiet room with little to no distractions, where Roman preferred background music worthy of singing along to and as much company as he could get.

They were the perfect balance and my dynamic duo. Without them, I wouldn’t be half as successful at my job and I made sure they knew it. Recognition was important.

Almost as important as morning coffees.

“So what’s left to do?” I peered around the suite. It looked pristine. Every surface glittered and sparkled in the morning sun.

“Florals,” Roman said. “I called down to the florist. She’s bringing them up shortly.”

“And the fruit basket,” Ginny said.

Roman fetched a leather-bound notebook from where it sat on one of the white sofas. He scanned what I imagined was a checklist. “And that’s it, doll faces. This suite will be ready for Mr. and Mrs. Trethuie—how the fuck do you pronounce this?”

I giggled. “Tre-thew-ee.”

Roman shook his head and scrunched up his nose in distaste. The small sparkly stone in his right nostril sparkled. “Ugh. Why would she take a horrible name like that?”

“It’s called love, Roman,” Ginny said dryly.

He rolled his eyes. “It’s called hideous.”

“They have a beautiful story,” I said as I fluffed the pillows on the sofas.

“They met when they were in college, but both of them were seeing other people. She went on a two-year overseas study program to Edinburgh and he stayed behind. They lost touch. Then after she came home and both of them had ended their relationships, they bumped into each other at a wedding. They’ve been inseparable ever since. ”

Roman tossed the checklist on the coffee table. “You think every one of your couples has a beautiful story, Katie.”

I shrugged. “Because they do.”

“I steadfastly disagree.” Roman moved to the window to finish steaming Ginny’s side of the curtains while she called down to double-check on the florals being brought up. “Remember that wealthy couple from London who were here last spring?”

“The Castors?”

He nodded. “Yes. Them. They met in a back alley in Rome after partying too hard. She was puking her guts out and he mistook her for one of his friends, they were so hammered.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” I asked.

He blinked at me. “It’s… icky.”

Ginny hung up the phone. “She’s on her way up right now. We have red and white rose petals coming and three arrangements. Two for the living room and one for the bedroom. She’s also bringing the champagne and fruit at the same time.”

“Perfect,” I said. “And for the record, just because a relationship starts out in an unconventional way doesn’t mean it’s icky. Having a funny story to tell instead of a romantic one is just as good, if not better.”

Roman shook his head. “No. No. No. My soul mate is out there in the world somewhere, and if I met him in a dark alley while I was expelling the contents of my stomach all over my shoes, I would forsake him and my happiness because there’s no way in hell my love story is starting out that way.”

Ginny and I exchanged a look.

Ginny dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s true. You’re a petty bitch, after all.”

Roman gasped in mock offense. “How dare you?”

Ginny snickered. “You turned a guy down because he was wearing boat shoes when he asked you to dinner.”

“So?” Roman asked pointedly. “I don’t see anything wrong with having standards.”

“Those aren’t standards,” Ginny said. “That’s just shallow.”

Roman pretended to flick his hair over his shoulder, even though his bleach-blond hair was cut short. “That’s what mediocre people say.”

Ginny stuck her tongue out at him.

I clapped my hands together. “Okay, children. Let’s stay on track, okay? These clients paid big money for this room. We can’t leave it in any other condition than perfect.”