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A thrill of excitement courses through me. Of course I know what I am doing.What I’m really doing.But does Maddox?
3
Maddox
It’s ten o’clock,and I’m about to lose my mind. Where the hell is she?
I should have insisted that Charles join us, though they made it clear his presence wasn’t necessary. I also didn’t want to hint that being alone with his daughter was so frustrating to me. Besides, according to her, I’m the face of the hotel.
I’m pacing in the lobby, looking at the front desk clerks who already small talked and kissed my ass enough. Then, someone taps my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her seductive scent, a mix of floral notes with spices that I’m sure were sold by an old wizard to drive men crazy.
I frown. I kept looking at the lobby, expecting her to enter from the front, but she must have already been here. I circle back to face her, and any trace of moisture evaporates from my throat the second I see Whitney.
She’s wearing a black sparkly sequin top, with thin straps on either side, cropped at her waist, and a matching skirt that whispers just around her thighs. Matte high heels in the same color finish her look.
Everything that’s male and primal in me throbs with awareness, and my heart drenches into a scorching liquid pumping in my veins. I take a step back, and do a once over. She’s stunning. Long legs, curvy hips, and even her exposed neck is sexy and I have a sudden urge to kiss it. Along with all the rest of her.
“I thought you said ten,” I tell her.
“Ten for you. I arrived at the club thirty minutes earlier and checked out the place a little. This way I have a good idea about the vibe of the hotel before I see you.”
“Oh. That’s smart.”
“In those thirty minutes, I checked the DJ line-up and it’s weak. You need a stronger name to draw a better crowd. Also, your bartender isn’t a good mixer. My cocktail was weak. And you need better ad placement for your happy hour specials. They’re small and hard to read even for a twenty-three year old like me.”
A sense of both pride and irritation course through me. Damn. She learned all that in thirty minutes. No wonder she’s so sought-after as an influencer. The irritation is directed at myself, for not hiring a manager that paid attention to these details, and also for being turned on by her for a reason that’s not physical. Nowthatcould land me in trouble.
“Come with me,” she says, and I walk alongside her to the club.
I take a look at the large space, trying to see it through the eyes of a first time visitor.
A few patrons scatter the bar area. In the far corner of the room, a stage is set up for the DJ, who’s a lowkey presence. He’s playing some tunes I never heard of, but then again, I can’t stand this techno shit. A few people occupy the dance area, but they’re dancing without much enthusiasm and slow, like they took a strong allergy medication.
Elegant décor with golden accents, velvet furniture, dim lighting, and glass windowpanes create a sophisticated atmosphere. Why isn’t there more draw to this place?
It’s well kept, looks good and I’m willing to make changes to improve the place.
“Let’s have a seat,” I say, and take her to the corner booth.
A waitress quickly sees us and comes to take orders. After she’s gone, I look at Whitney.
“So, hhmmm, I hear you’re friends with Dan Walters. The politician.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say friends. We graduated from the University of Texas the same year, and I’ve donated to his campaign every so often. But I don’t have him on speed dial or anything,” I say. “I never made any effort to strengthen ties with him or any other politician. They’re good people to know if you’re a businessperson, but bad people to trust.” And Dan always had big douchebag energy. I just never got close enough to witness it.
She gives me a long glance, and a mischievous smile dances on her lips. She opens her mouth, then glances at the ceiling like she’s second guessing what she’s about to say. I lean in, now interested. “If you invite him for dinner, will he come?” she asks.
“I guess. Why?”
“Because he got divorced recently. So if you invite him for dinner at the restaurant, then show him around—maybe a drink at the club, and he’s seen here, that would be great for buzz. For the club and the hotel.”
I shake my head. Suddenly, this whole elevating the hotel sounds like a lot of fucking work. Isn’t that why we hired her? “He’s not the club type.”
She waves me off. “He doesn’t have to be. Just offer an informal tour, all I need is him in here for a few minutes, and my assistant can snap a picture of him and then we’ll send it to a blogger we know.”
When I opened regular restaurants, I invited people, had a party, and that created enough buzz. We didn’t need this sketchy operation. I sigh, frustration crossing through my chest. But those were different times, I have to remind myself.
Restaurants for hard working middle-class Americans are not the same as what I’m trying to do with Dallas Proper. “Am I missing something? Why are we doing these gymnastics? I thought this was about the club.”
