Page 128 of The Business of Love Box Set 1: Books 1 - 4

KATIE

I heard Ginny and Roman bickering twenty feet down the hallway as I approached our meeting room.

It was a small space with big one-way windows so that guests outside couldn’t see us working.

It sort of ruined the illusion of all the hard work we did if the guests could see our room full of notebooks, planning boards, floral arrangements, candles, coupons, certificates, and changes of clothes and shoes.

It was like the green room at a theatre production. It was only for the eyes of the performers and directing company.

I rounded the corner and found my two assistants frantically flipping through papers. Ginny was on the phone. Her forehead was creased, a telltale sign that something was amiss and she was stressed. Roman was looking through what appeared to be inventory lists for all the restaurants.

“None,” he muttered as he flipped through page after page. “None, none, none! Ginny, are you still on hold? We don’t have time for this shit. If Katie—”

“If Katie what?” I asked as I folded my arms across my chest.

Roman and Ginny looked up. Ginny pointed at the phone to her ear as if to say, “can’t talk, busy.”

This left Roman to deal with me. He swallowed and nodded at the powder-pink portfolio on the conference table between us.

All of my clients’ information was kept in individually labeled portfolios and stored in the shelving unit against the wall to my right.

The entire wall was comprised of storage solutions for my files and vendors.

“There was a delivery error this morning,” Roman said. “One of the housekeeping staff dropped off a basket of fruits to the wrong room, so now our couple in suite four oh two is, well, fruitless.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Fruitless? Can’t we make it up to them with something else? I hardly think a fruit basket is enough to raise this level of concern, you guys.” I strode forward and flipped open the powder-pink folio. My heart sank. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Roman rubbed the back of his neck. “The basket was for Mr. and Mrs. Delacroix.”

“Shit.”

Ginny looked back and forth between us and began speaking hurriedly to whoever was on the other end of the phone. “You’re sure? You have nothing we can use? I’ll take anything.” There was a pause. “Okay, thank you. We’ll figure it out.”

Ginny hung up the phone and looked at me hopelessly. “None of the restaurants have spares we can use. What should we do?”

Roman scoffed. “Well, I don’t propose we tell the Delacroixs that other guests received their fruit basket. It’s trivial, but—”

“They’ll care,” I finished for him.

The Delacroix couple had been a thorn in our sides for the past eight months leading up to their wedding and honeymoon.

They’d visited the hotel three times before concluding that yes, they wanted to honeymoon here, and no, they wouldn’t settle for anything less than the diamond suite.

They added special services like a personal butler and a couple’s massage on their patio from a specialty masseuse who didn’t even work at the El Cartana.

They would settle for nothing less than exactly what they’d requested. I’d been so thorough with them that there was no excuse not to be prepared.

“I have to go into the market then,” I said finally. It was the only solution. If the hotel didn’t have what we needed for the clients, then I was going to have to get it myself. “See if you can stall them a bit. Their spa appointments are done at what time this morning?”

“Eleven,” Roman said.

I glanced at the clock on the wall above my storage units.

It was eight thirty. “That’s more than enough time for me to go to the market and get back.

If I’m not here by quarter to eleven, go down to the spa and add a specialty service.

Make sure it isn’t one they have planned for the rest of their week here.

We can’t risk an oversight like that. Sound good? ”

Ginny nodded. “Got it.”

“What’s our worst-case-scenario plan?” Roman asked.

I appreciated this about him. He never wanted things to go badly, but he was prepared to handle them if they did.

I moved toward the door. “Worst case, I can’t get any fruit at the market and we’re not going to have anything for them…” I trailed off, considering what the best way to make amends would be for a couple who had everything and anything. “Dinner on the beach.”

“Sorry?” Roman asked.

I nodded, positive that this would work as a last-minute solution.

“If we can’t make this happen, offer them a romantic dinner on the beach and make sure they know we’ve never done this for anyone before.

Tell them they’ll have their own personal server, a free bottle of wine or champagne, whichever they prefer, and a three-course meal. ”

Roman arched an eyebrow. “Have you seen Mrs. Delacroix? She’s a three-course meal all to herself.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “And if that doesn’t work?”

Roman frowned, obviously dejected that nobody was pausing to humor him. “Guys?”

“Shut up, Roman,” Ginny said sharply.

He shot her a dark look. “I was just saying. She doesn’t need more fruit anyway. What that woman needs is water and sunscreen. I swear, if she’d give me two minutes with her, I could show her how to—”

“ Shut up, Roman, ” Ginny and I barked.

Ginny turned back to me. “And if the dinner doesn’t appease them?”

I shrugged. “Then we hope and pray they don’t lose their damn minds. You never know with the supremely wealthy if they’re going to have a tantrum or carry on with their day. It’s best to err on the side of caution.”

Roman smirked. “If the Mrs. has a tantrum, she’ll start a damn earthquake.”

“Oh my God, Roman ,” Ginny hissed. “You’re so rude!”

“What?”

“She’s not that bad,” Ginny said in defense of the most high-maintenance guest I’d had in my entire career. “She’s voluptuous.”

Roman laughed. “That’s a generous way of saying she’s as fat as her bank account.”

Ginny shook her head and buried her face in her hand. “You’re going to get yourself in trouble one of these days.”

“The only one who should be worried about trouble is her new husband. If he—”

I slipped out of the meeting room and rushed down the halls toward the lobby.

The sound of my assistants bickering followed me until I rounded the corner.

Ginny was right. Roman had to tread carefully when it came to talking about our guests.

If word ever got back to them about the things he was saying, he’d be fired on the spot, and my job might be at risk too for allowing such behavior.

But still, when you worked in the service industry for so long and you had an insufferable client who didn’t seem to give a damn about how demanding they were or how hard they were making you work, it made the bad days a little easier to sit back and have a couple of laughs at their expense.

Or rather, at Mrs. Delacroix’s expense.

I was thankful for the decision I’d made this morning to forgo putting on another pair of heels as I rushed across the lobby.

My sandals were gold and shiny, and they looked good with my white dress, but the best part was that they were as flat as I used to be before I started taking birth control.

The sandals slapped against the marble floors and the concrete as I emerged outside and caught a cab.

I ended up having to share it with another couple who had not used my honeymoon-coordinator services but were staying at the hotel in the lower-level suites.

They were friendly and chatted my ear off about their trip so far, and I smiled and nodded, pleased to hear they were having a good time but distracted by the panic in my chest over the Delacroix crisis.

I can’t believe a fruit basket can cause you so much stress these days, I thought to myself when I got out of the back of the cab at the market.

Before this job, I would’ve laughed at such a ludicrous scenario.

Prior to working with people of the same social status as the Delacroixs, I never would have understood how something as simple as fruit could lead to a royal headache of the likes I’d never experienced before.

But I’d done my part with couples like this.

I knew exactly how this cookie would crumble and I would rather go on a panicked shopping trip to the market in hopes that the Delacroixs never found out about the fruit mishap over owning up to it and having to play catch up for their entire honeymoon to make it up to them.

For people like the Delacroixs, making it up to them was damn near impossible.

I hurried along the stands at the market in search of the brightest, ripest, juiciest fruit.

I found papaya and mango, two things that were specially requested, as well as shaved dried coconut for a special treat.

I got a little fancy with it and found homemade cocoa, which was sold in beautiful little bags secured with a purple ribbon.

I found pineapple and strawberries and resolved to go back to the hotel to find the right basket to put the gift together.

With some luck, the guests would never know we’d given their basket to another couple.

“Fingers crossed,” I breathed as I slipped away from the tables and began making my way through the market. It was busy today, way busier than I expected.

Someone clipped my shoulder and my bag spilled over.

“Shit,” I hissed, dropping to a crouch to pick everything up and cram it back in the bag. “I don’t have time for this!”

I swept my hair over my shoulder, stood up, and carried on as I tucked the bag of cocoa back into the produce bag.

A man turned from a table and slammed straight into me.

I let out a startled yelp and fell right on my ass.

My produce bag spilled open again and I let out a primal cry as I threw myself over the fruit to stop it from being trampled by careless strangers.

The man who’d knocked me down muttered a string of panicked apologies and crouched down in front of me. “Miss? Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. I can be so clumsy. Are you hurt?”

I shook my head as I frantically collected my fruit. “I’m okay. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I just—” I broke off when I looked up at him.

He was smiling at me. And he was the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on. That was saying something because in my line of work I met a lot of good-looking men.

But this man?

Oooh mama.

Even crouched down, I could tell he was tall. He had broad shoulders, and as he reached out to help me gather my fruit, the fabric of his light linen shirt was pulled taut across his back, shoulders, and biceps.

I swallowed.

He wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes, but I doubted they would be anything shy of spectacular.

He had a square jaw covered in dark, neatly trimmed stubble.

His hair was longer than I usually liked on a guy.

It hung in effortless waves just past his jawline, and my lady bits tightened when he raked his fingers through it, slicking it back off his forehead.

Do that again .

He did not. Instead, he stood up and offered me his hand.

I accepted and he pulled me to my feet.

Yep. He was tall. A little over six feet to be sure. His waist was narrow and he had the physique of a swimmer who also lifted weights and probably hiked high mountains and went rowing on Saturdays and maybe even went rock climbing when the mood struck.

I was sure I’d made all that up in my head, but he was sheer strength and muscle. Everything on his body was purposeful.

I bit my bottom lip and giggled bashfully. “I’m sorry. I’m being rude. My name is Katie.”

“Peter,” he said.

“It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

He flashed me a white, dazzling smile. “You too. Do you need a hand? You look like a person on a mission.”

“Do you have a car?”

He nodded. “Sure do.”