Page 17 of Counting Down To You

His gaze travels over my face, as if checking for doubts. Then he holds out his hand for me to shake. I notice the pleasantly cool texture of his palm as I take it, the way his grip is strong around mine. It makes me self-conscious, wondering if my own hand is too clammy.

But, if it is, it doesn’t make him let go. “All right then,” he says, and a corner of his mouth quirks up. “Looks like we have a deal.”

Chapter

6

The rest of my first day passes in a bit of a blur, and when my alarm wakes me up in the morning it takes several moments to remember where I am. I meant to ring Cal last night and fill him in on what happened—because maybe telling someone would make it all feel real—but I’d crawled into bed and ended up falling asleep instead.

I spent yesterday getting to grips with everything, met a couple of the guests, and tried to memorize a map of the area so I can direct people as needed. It turns out that Cal was relatively accurate in his job description: the role of a guest-relations manager is to keep guests happy, and given I’m somewhat of a people pleaser, this works in my favor. I’m not actually managing anyone—thank God—but I am near the top of the hierarchy, from what I can gather from a very convoluted flow diagram explaining who reports into who. Obviously, I report into Leo, but beyond that I’m not really sure what’s going on.

I haven’t seen Leo since we agreed to let everyone believe that we’re dating. I spent a lot of time yesterday in the shared office—a cluttered room with a long work bench in the center and slightly outdated desktops, given the decor of the rest of the hotel. I was the only one in there for most of the day, going through the upcoming bookings and trying to work out who’s on my “priority list.” There seems to be a general assumption that I know what I’m doing, which is both helpful and slightly terrifying.

Elodie brought me dinner in the office, meaning I a) ate and b) avoided a repeat of the staff round table, both of which have firmly cemented Elodie as my favorite person here. I didn’t leave the hotel until dark and, despite staring at the map, I’m still not entirely sure which way leads to the actual skiing.

It’s cold when I throw my duvet off and head into the kitchen to make a coffee with the fancy coffee machine—only to find that there is no actual coffee in it. So that’s two things on my to-do list. Find coffee, and get some logs for the wood-burning stove.

Abandoning the coffee plan, I try to get ready for work under my duvet, with limited success. Note to self: work out the timer on the heater. It’s still dark when I leave the cabin, the cold immediately wrapping around me as I shove my hands deep into my coat pockets. There is a light on in the other cabin and I glance over to see a shape moving behind a curtain. The shape of a torso.

I quickly look away, but that’s got to be Leo. He has the other cabin, which makes sense, given he’s the manager. Now I think I understand some of the comments made at the staff lunch yesterday. And possibly some of Lucie’s antagonism—she must think I got the cabin because I’m dating Leo.

Thankfully, Leo doesn’t come outside as I cross to the hotel, though that doesn’t stop my nerves from jangling. I have no idea how to behave around him. We made no rules, no agreements. We should have done. Isn’t that the cornerstone of all fake dating relationships? Although I suppose we aren’t really fake dating, more like letting everyone assume something they’d already assumed. But, now that the chaos of yesterday is over, I’m wondering if I should have asked more questions—and if I’m a little mad to have agreed to it.

Say yes to something you’d usually say no to.

But I’ve already said yes now, so could I change my mind? I’d still have fulfilled the challenge, technically. It feels like that would be cheating, though. And even if Robyn is not around to see it, I don’t want to let her down. Not this final time.

Lucie is already at reception when I get there, looking incredibly chic with her dark hair pinned up in a bun, wearing a different suit to yesterday, with a dash of peach lipstick. It’s early, but there is already a couple at the desk. Lucie is the picture of charm, laughing at something the man says, then pulling out a piece of paper from behind the desk and writing something down for them. So she can be nice, then. I can’t decide if that’s reassuring or disappointing.

I head straight to the restaurant. Two VIPs arrived late last night and it’s my job to check in with them over breakfast. Betty and Louisa Carmichael. Sisters, one of whom was apparently married to a famous American actor before he died. There is, however, no proof of this on Google, so I’m not entirely sure whether to believe the hotel gossip. Regardless, they are both repeat guests and always spend a lot of money, and that is enough to warrant them VIP status.

The sisters are sitting at one of the tables by the glass doors to the balcony, looking out at the mountains, which are just waking up under an orange glow. I know who they are because this is the table they always have, according to their notes. They are both, I would guess, in their sixties, both fair, both already in ski trousers and long-sleeved thermal tops. One of them has let her hair grow out gray, the other’s is dyed an ash blond. Both look over at me as I approach their table. They’re holding their coffee cups in exactly the same way. Coffee. God, I wish I’d had some coffee.

“Betty, Louisa.” I’m careful not to speak directly to either one of them as I say their names, being as how I have no idea who is who. “I’m Ali. I just wanted to come and check how everything was so far, and if there’s anything I can help with?”

One of them—the ash-blonde—purses her lips as she looks up at me. “You’re new.” Her tone is accusing.

“I am,” I agree.

The other sister sighs. “Can they really not keep staff around here?” She peers up at me. “Do they not treat you well, love?”

“What happened to the chap from last year?” interrupts the blond sister. “Jez. Or Jaz? Definitely began with a J.”

“I…” I have no idea who they’re talking about.

“And what about that lovely lady on reception?”

“Lucie,” prompts the gray-haired sister.

“Exactly, yes. Lucie.”

“She’s still here!” I realize I sound a touch too excited to know the answer and try to even it out with a smile. Even if I’m not totally sure “lovely” is the adjective I’d use to describe Lucie.

“Well, that’s something,” says the blond sister, sipping her coffee. “And we’re grand, thank you. Room’s splendid as always, though the artwork’s changed, hasn’t it?”

“The painting over my bed is definitely different,” gray-haired sister agrees.

“Yes. It used to be that gorgeous landscape, didn’t it? The one of a night sky, almost like Van Gogh.”