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This time of day though, the luxury lobby is mostly silent, with just the lone overnight guy working the front desk, holding down the fort until the day guys arrive to handle the morning crush.
My new Tory Burch clutch tucked into my armpit, I lightly juggle the box in my hands and wiggle my eyebrows at the front-desk guy. “Brought you something.”
Ramon’s smile grows wider, his brown eyes lighting up. “My wife says you’re going to make me fat.”
“Tell Marta that the dad-bod is totally in style right now,” I say, setting the box of donuts on the counter and lifting the lid. “Unless, of course, you don’t want a maple bacon old-fashioned?”
Ramon is already reaching inside the box, shaking his head as he lifts the sugary treat. “Still warm.”
“Technically my shop doesn’t open until five, but I’m such a loyal customer they let me in a bit early,” I say, surveying the array of donuts and trying to decide if I’m in a chocolate kind of mood, or if I want to risk the powdered sugar one.
Since my Alexander McQueen minidress is black (the arch nemesis of powdered sugar, obvs), I reach for the chocolate one, even as I set my clutch on the counter and fish out my phone.
4:58 a.m.
Two more minutes.
“How’s Marta dealing with the pregnancy of Baby Number Three?” I ask, taking a bite of the donut and shifting my attention back to Ramon, who’s already polished off his old-fashioned, and is contemplating a second. I nudge the box toward him.
“She’s good,” he says. “Excited that we’re finally having a girl.”
“A girl!” I say, reaching across the counter and squeezing his massive forearm. “Congratulations, I hadn’t heard!”
“Just found out yesterday,” he says with a happy smile, apparently deciding the occasion calls for another maple bar.
“I have the perfect baby gift,” I say, nibbling at a piece of my donut. “I saw this adorable Burberry onesie in Bergdorf’s the other day, with this precious little red bow—”
“Yes, because that’s what every infant needs,” a low voice interrupts. “A four-hundred-dollar piece of fabric that needs to be dry-cleaned? Don’t be ridiculous, Georgiana.”
I don’t have to look at my clock to know what time it is.
Five o’clock.
On the dot.
With an eye roll, I don’t even bother to turn as my red nails tear off another piece of donut and pop it into my mouth. “Ramon, do you think you could talk to maintenance about adjusting the temp? It just got a little cold in here.”
Ramon’s been working here long enough to know my request isn’t for real. Not that it matters, because he’s already set his donut aside and straightened up, practically saluting the newcomer.
“Mr. Mulroney. Good morning, sir.”
“Ramon.” The voice is low and serious, a touch impatient, although not quite rude.
You know that adage that you catch more flies with honey? I’m not so sure it’s true. I bring donuts to the front desk guys just about every morning, and they adore me. I know they do.
But they respect him.
Giving in to the inevitable, I finally let my eyes flick to the side, my gaze colliding with a stern brown scowl.
I put on my widest, sparkliest smile, only because I know it drives Mr. Mulroney crazy. True to habit, I see a muscle in his jaw twitch as I flutter my eyelashes.
“Good morning, Andrew.”
“Georgiana.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Only my late grandmother has ever called me that, and I’m pretty sure that’s only because I was her namesake. Everyone else calls me Georgie. Well okay, not everyone. Ramon and the other guys still insist on calling me Ms. Watkins, but I’m working on it. See: daily donuts.
I smile wider and push the box in Andrew’s direction. “Donut?”
