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CHAPTER 7
PAIGE
Professional friends.
Friends of a professional nature.
As our cab arrives at Botsford Plaza Chicago, I wonder how plausible that really is. Oliver seems to have dropped the subject entirely, but I can’t not feel his eyes on me. I keep telling myself it’s fine. Looking is fine. There’s no rule against looking. It’s the touching part that gets people in trouble and I would very much like to keep my job, so...
Lookie, no touchie.
The cab stops at the front entrance to the Plaza. Oliver immediately hops out on his side, and I do the same as the doorman rushes around to open my door.
“Hey, Paige,” he greets me, bowing his head.
“Hi, Dean,” I say, quickly picking his name out of my brain’s infinite Rolodex.
He looks at Oliver and nods. “Graham officially gone, then?”
“Yeah, but he’s kicking ass from the top just like always.”
“Right on,” he says with a laugh as he walks toward the trunk. “I’ll get your bags taken upstairs.”
“Thanks. We have a lot to do today.”
I turn and slam into a wide shoulder beside me.
Oliver steps back. “Sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay.” I swallow hard. “So, first thing, you’ll want to meet with Ian and?—”
“Count down the safe,” he finishes. “I know.”
“Right. I know that you know. I just...” I pause, still far too close to those blue eyes for comfort. “Well, I’ll head down to housekeeping, then.”
“All right. We’ll hook up later.”
I frown.
“We’ll meet up later,” he says.
I nod and take a wide step around him to enter the hotel. The Chicago location, while not the largest in the country, is always busy. Guests pack the lobby, coming and going from the golden elevators. The restaurant also appears at full capacity, which is what we like to see nowadays.
There was a time, back when the previous manager ran things, when this wasn’t the case.
Drake Botsford, Kingston’s brother, was lazy and sloppy with the place. He was forced out eventually, though Drake remains semi-involved with the company as a shareholder. He left his old haunting grounds in the accomplished hands of his oldest son, Ian.
While his father was lazy and sloppy, Ian is not. He’s driven and focused.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite guest.”
And a total creep.
Ian Botsford stands by the front desk with his hands in his pockets and a shit-eating grin on his bearded face. I force a stiff smile and pretend to check my clipboard to look busy — not that I expect it to work.
It never does.
