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GEORGIA
In the morning, my lips are swollen and deliciously sore from hours of Dominic kissing me. I can’t help but replay the memory of him demanding that I say his name while I rode his hand, while he made me say, “Yes, I fucking want this…”
“Why are you over here talking to yourself, Georgia?” Taryn waves a hand in front of my face. “You’re literally in the middle of a crisis.”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, snapping out of the trance. “What’s going on?”
“Three more people called in sick,” she says. “They didn’t eventryto sound convincing. One of them literally laughed in my face.”
“There’s no way people are bailing on me during the holidays.” I glance at the updated spreadsheet, staring at it as if the numbers may change.
“Before I even attempt to get into this...” I pick up a clipboard. “Where are we on Savannah’s cupcake order?”
“The same place we were last week when she called at midnight about it.” She scoffs. “She and her boss should just elope and put us out of wedding planning misery.”
“I suggested that and she turned it down.”
“Suggest itagain.”
“Will do.” I’m too stressed to laugh. “I’ll call the baker for some mockups later to keep her at bay. What department do you want to help me with today?”
“Housekeeping.”
“Any chance you can handle the front desk, too?”
“Maybe for a couple hours.”
“Okay, so that leaves me with…” I shake my head. “Everything else.”
The VIP guest service bell rings, and I pick up the phone.
“Guest Services,” I say. “How can I make your evening better?”
“I’d like someone to come upstairs and prepare my hot tub with lavender and candles for me,” a woman says. “I would also like some hot towels.”
“My pleasure, Miss. I’ll fulfill your request right away.”
I start typing an email for the spa department, but I realize they’re down to two employees, which won’t work.
“Taryn, can you do me a favor and—”
The guest service bell rings again, and I fake a smile before answering.
“Guest Services. How can I make your evening better?”
“I’d like to have your best chilled wine, strawberries, and the S’more specialty delivered to my room within the next twenty minutes,” a man says. “I mentioned this at check-in, I believe.”
“You did, Mr. Hanson.” I remember. “Our chef made your order gluten free.”
“You’re the best, Miss Grey. Thank you.”
I wait for him to end the call and page the wine cellar.
The line rings and rings and rings.
Ryan and Liam called off, too?
I slam the phone down. “Turn-down service is in seven hours, and there’s now way we’ll get to everyone in time.”
