Page 46 of Wrong Room, Right Billionaire

“It’s burnt. Always burnt. You call this luxury?” she shouts, and her accent echoes against every wall in the lobby.

“I will call maintenance right now,” the girl says, and that’s when Morgan steps in.

“I’ll handle this,” he says, and the girl looks at him. Her eyes dilate with recognition, and she steps aside. Meanwhile, Donovan and I just watch from a safe distance.

“I take it they didn’t know he was coming?” I ask Donovan.

“Nope. He didn’t want any of the middle management scrambling to cover up or putting on a show. He wanted to walk into whatever shitshow conditions were in play.”

“I think he’s getting what he wanted.” I say as I continue to watch.

“And who are you?” the woman demands.

“I’m Morgan Bale,” he says. “I own the resort.”

“Well, Mr. Bale, your quality is not what it used to be,” she snaps back. “I visited this very resort thirty years ago and even without the updates and the fancy amenities, it was volumes better than it is today. Your parents knew how to run a hotel, Mr. Bale.”

“I am going to set you up in a new room,” he says.

“I’ve already unpacked,” she says.

“I understand the inconvenience, which is why I am putting you in the executive suite. I can assure you there will be no imperfections,” he states, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.

“There’s the Bale standard,” Donovan smiles, crossing his arms.

“Also, someone will caddy your belongings over to the new room, and dinner at the Sand Dollar Restaurant is on us tonight.”

“And how much is all of this going to cost me?” she asks, still sneering.

“Not a dime, Miss Turner,” he says, because in the middle of her ranting he’s already pulled up her name on the screen. “In fact, we are refunding your stay back to you in its entirety.”

She blinks, clearly shocked. But then she smiles. If I had to guess, it’s something that she rarely does.

“Thank you, Mr. Bale. There’s hope for you boys yet,” she says, and Morgan offers her a smile with zero visible offense to her sideways compliment.

Then he turns to the desk girl. “Make the changes,” he says, and she nods quickly before getting on the phone.

“Um, Mr. Bale?” she asks as the woman walks away. “The E-suite was booked for you tonight.”

“Then I guess you’re going to have to give me the second best, aren’t you?” he asks. “Oh, and make sure none of the drains are clogged.”

“Of course, sir.” She nods, and Morgan walks back over to Donovan and me.

“Did you get all that?” he asks as he passes me. And honestly, I’m still trying to process. In less than one minute, I saw two completely different versions of Morgan Bale. He went from stern and dominating to attentive and polite. As I watch him head to the bar, I realize that there are probably more sides to Morgan than I ever considered. I have a feeling I am about to meet all of them.

* * *

“This is a disaster,” Morgan says after he takes a sip of an Old Fashion. We are seated in a private room that is more like a balcony overlooking the beach. “I don’t understand how things could be so bad.”

“It’s just a drain,” I say, fully aware that I am poking the bear here.

“It’s not just a drain,” he snaps. “It’s never just a drain. Just on my walk over to the bar, I overheard half a dozen other complaints. Everything from the linens are scratchy to the pillows are too firm to the windows having splotches on them. What the hell is even the point of every room having a view of the ocean if guests can’t see through fingerprints and seagull shit.”

“But that’s not really your fault,” Donovan says.

“No, it’s not,” he agrees. “It’s middle management.”

“Who oversees middle management?” I ask carefully. I’m not trying to make Morgan angrier than he already is. I’m just trying to understand the weight of the situation here.