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She offers me a sad smile. “Thanks.”
Our purpose for being in New York differs. Winter’s here for a project regarding a long-awaited kitchen extension, while I’m here for a meeting tomorrow with a local supplier who thinks they should be paid for sub-standard work. To be honest, I’m pleased to be away from the suite; the renovations for the tower are noisy and dusty, and I’m glad Reuben’s overseeing the work. And being away from Aspen will be good for Winter and I.
Dad’s accompanying Winter and me. It’s not only because he knows Luca is perfectly capable of running things on his own, but because he’s interested in Winter’s take on things. He sees something in her. Hunger. Ambition. Passion. After all, Luca has vouched for her, offering her a position at the mothership. And she came from Wardorff-Messen, so naturally, Dad wants to see what she’s made of.
The car drops us off right outside the hotel, taxis beeping their horns in outrage. I grab our bags from the trunk before waving off our driver.
Dad greets the doorman by name, and then we’re inside the grand building, Winter pausing her steps as she stands in the middle of the hotel lobby. Spinning on the spot, she takes in the rich decor, the fancy lighting, and the plush furniture for guests to lounge in as they wait for friends or colleagues. Off to one side is the walnut booth for a uniformed concierge, and hallways leading to the bars and restaurants.
Noticing I’ve stopped to observe Winter, Dad retraces his steps from the reception desk.
“She’s getting a feel for the place,” I murmur as she wanders off to the velvet chairs and falls into one, crossing her legs and smiling at us.
“I probably don’t do that enough,” Dad says, heading her way. I follow, sitting nearby and absorbing the comings and goings for a few minutes, even though I’m starving.
Dad asks, “First impressions?”
Winter’s hands are smoothing over the armrests, her eyes on the thick, expensive rugs at our feet. “Quiet refinement. Luxuriant. Awe,” she adds, as four tourists walk in with their Gucci suitcases, admiring their lavish surroundings. “But the reception desk looks clinical from here, don’t you think? And there’s no music. And I don’t mean awful hold or elevator music. Something moving. But finally,” she says, leaning in towards us, “what’s that smell?”
“Money?” I quip.
Winter grins before inhaling. She looks at Dad. “Is that the cleaning product? Do they use something different to Chateau B?”
“They shouldn’t be,” he says by way of explanation. “But it does smell…musty.”
Whatever it is, it’s not fresh. And now that Winter’s pointed it out, I can’t un-smell it.
We get a key for the private suite from reception, the residence we keep here a home from home. Meanwhile, Dad asks for Fabio, the duty manager, ready to discuss Winter’s findings. With nothing else to do but ignore my rumbling stomach, I join them.
Fabio vows to get to the bottom of the odor. As for the style of the reception desk, that will be discussed in more detail tomorrow.
“But there should be some kind of music,” Winter insists. “Subtle yet emotive. Every time the door opens, New York rushes in, and I know there are two sets of doors to mitigate that, but guests walk through those doors to escape the bedlam out there.”
“We have agreements, and all the necessary licenses to stream music,” I remind Dad. Legally, this is possible. “Chicago and San Fran—to name two hotels out of dozens—stream music in their lobbies.”
“Let’s add it to the schedule of works,” he tells Fabio.
Once upstairs in our suite, I show Winter to the room we’re taking tonight, both of us unpacking. Dad is on the opposite side of the apartment, hopefully out of earshot.
“There’s a nice bath,” Winter announces, checking out the ensuite. “Maybe you can join me again?”
Since New Year’s, I’ve spent the night with her in my bed. Being a masochist, we started the evening in my tub again, touching, kissing. Coming.
“Sure.”
The smile she aims my way reminds me of her staff photo from Stein Hotel. It’s a little bit mischievous, her eyes a total come-on, seductive and alluring.
My phone rings as Winter opens drawers and cupboards. She bounces on the mattress and flicks light switches. Watching her is amusing, even though I admire her focus and attention to detail. At any rate, she gets me hard.
“Sienna, what’s up?” I ask, not really in the mood to talk. I saw her for New Year’s Day lunch; I can’t think there’s anything else to catch up on.
“Just thought I’d call. How are you? What’s going on?”
“I’m in New York, with Dad and Winter.”
“Oh. You didn’t say you were going.”
I withhold a snort. “Pretty sure you don’t want to know what I’m up to every day of the week.” Or what my plans are with my girlfriend, I don’t add.
