Chapter 1
The woman sweeps into the hotel reception with all the haughtiness of a Hollywood movie diva, she certainly looks like one. As she approaches the front desk, I have to stop myself from practically drooling over the cream Versace summer dress and sleek Gucci heels that she is wearing. I guess they could be fake, but something tells me they aren’t. She just oozes money and class.
I try not to compare myself to her, and ignore the nagging worry that I look drab and matronly in my own navy blue hotel uniform. For years I have battled with my inferiority complex and I am only just getting the upper-hand. The last thing I need is some Amazon goddess smashing through my carefully constructed defences.
“Good morning, welcome to the Cherry Tree,” I say perkily and putting on my best hostess smile.
“Drake,” the woman says sharply, her manicured voice betraying the hint of a foreign accent. “We have a reservation.”
She barely acknowledges me from behind her large sunglasses, and I feel my smile falter. For the most part our guests are very friendly, and even after my couple of years’ experience, an unpleasant one can really set me on edge. Their rude behaviour makes me feel as if have failed in my job somehow.
“Of course,” I say, maintaining my friendly disposition. “One moment please,” I add, as I consult the computer. Her thick perfume hits me in the back of the throat as I call up the reservation details, and I have to stifle a cough.
“Here we are, Mr and Mrs Drake,” I say. “You’re in Room 18. Is, erm, Mr Drake with you?”
Mrs Drake has her head down and is rooting through her handbag. “Vance!” she suddenly shouts in the direction of the open main doors. “Stop screwing about, and get in here!”
I watch, startled, as a man carrying some expensive looking luggage saunters into reception. My heart does a back flip as I look him over. He is tall, not as tall as the statuesque Mrs Drake, but he towers over me even though I am wearing heels. He is broad too, and the wedge of tanned skin revealed by his open shirt collar hints that he keeps himself in good shape. Unable to stop myself, my eyes lap up the elegant contours of his neck and his oval, boyish face.
“Sorry Estelle,” he says in a voice like golden honey. He offers her a disarmingly grin of dazzlingly white teeth as he joins her at the desk. “I was just having a look round. It’s really beautiful here.”
“Room 18,” Estelle says impatiently, pointing one narrow finger at the key card I’d placed on the desk.
“Please,” I say quickly, suddenly feeling my cheeks heating up. “Bobby will take your cases up to your room.” Bobby is the lanky waste of space that passes for our only bellboy. He isn’t that good at his job, but I don’t want this glamorous couple to think they’d come to some backwater dive.
Vance pushes his sunglasses down lower so they perch on the end of his sharply defined nose. His eyes are glittering orbs of ice blue. My heart stammers in my chest as I force myself to meet his gaze. “That’s very accommodating of you . . . Holly,” he purrs, scanning my name badge, “but I can manage the bags. I’m a big strong boy. I eat all my vegetables you know.”
He winks at me like a mischievous schoolboy and I giggle. A few seconds later the mortification of losing my carefully cultured air of professionalism hits me square in the gut. I straighten up and pretended to look at something on the computer. Vance keeps his gaze on me.
“That’s no problem at all Sir,” I say, hearing the tightness in my voice. I ring the bell and glance behind me. “Bobby.” I call.
Bobby lurches out of his lair in the back office and gives me a surly look. I make my face into a glacier. “Take the Drakes’ luggage up to Room 18, Bobby.”
Face like thunder, Bobby shuffles from behind the desk to obey. Vance grins at him and lumbers him with the luggage.
The woman sweeps into the hotel reception with all the haughtiness of a Hollywood movie diva, she certainly looks like one. As she approaches the front desk, I have to stop myself from practically drooling over the cream Versace summer dress and sleek Gucci heels that she is wearing. I guess they could be fake, but something tells me they aren’t. She just oozes money and class.
I try not to compare myself to her, and ignore the nagging worry that I look drab and matronly in my own navy blue hotel uniform. For years I have battled with my inferiority complex and I am only just getting the upper-hand. The last thing I need is some Amazon goddess smashing through my carefully constructed defences.
“Good morning, welcome to the Cherry Tree,” I say perkily and putting on my best hostess smile.
“Drake,” the woman says sharply, her manicured voice betraying the hint of a foreign accent. “We have a reservation.”
She barely acknowledges me from behind her large sunglasses, and I feel my smile falter. For the most part our guests are very friendly, and even after my couple of years’ experience, an unpleasant one can really set me on edge. Their rude behaviour makes me feel as if have failed in my job somehow.
“Of course,” I say, maintaining my friendly disposition. “One moment please,” I add, as I consult the computer. Her thick perfume hits me in the back of the throat as I call up the reservation details, and I have to stifle a cough.
“Here we are, Mr and Mrs Drake,” I say. “You’re in Room 18. Is, erm, Mr Drake with you?”
Mrs Drake has her head down and is rooting through her handbag. “Vance!” she suddenly shouts in the direction of the open main doors. “Stop screwing about, and get in here!”
I watch, startled, as a man carrying some expensive looking luggage saunters into reception. My heart does a back flip as I look him over. He is tall, not as tall as the statuesque Mrs Drake, but he towers over me even though I am wearing heels. He is broad too, and the wedge of tanned skin revealed by his open shirt collar hints that he keeps himself in good shape. Unable to stop myself, my eyes lap up the elegant contours of his neck and his oval, boyish face.
“Sorry Estelle,” he says in a voice like golden honey. He offers her a disarmingly grin of dazzlingly white teeth as he joins her at the desk. “I was just having a look round. It’s really beautiful here.”
“Room 18,” Estelle says impatiently, pointing one narrow finger at the key card I’d placed on the desk.
“Please,” I say quickly, suddenly feeling my cheeks heating up. “Bobby will take your cases up to your room.” Bobby is the lanky waste of space that passes for our only bellboy. He isn’t that good at his job, but I don’t want this glamorous couple to think they’d come to some backwater dive.
Vance pushes his sunglasses down lower so they perch on the end of his sharply defined nose. His eyes are glittering orbs of ice blue. My heart stammers in my chest as I force myself to meet his gaze. “That’s very accommodating of you . . . Holly,” he purrs, scanning my name badge, “but I can manage the bags. I’m a big strong boy. I eat all my vegetables you know.”
He winks at me like a mischievous schoolboy and I giggle. A few seconds later the mortification of losing my carefully cultured air of professionalism hits me square in the gut. I straighten up and pretended to look at something on the computer. Vance keeps his gaze on me.
“That’s no problem at all Sir,” I say, hearing the tightness in my voice. I ring the bell and glance behind me. “Bobby.” I call.
Bobby lurches out of his lair in the back office and gives me a surly look. I make my face into a glacier. “Take the Drakes’ luggage up to Room 18, Bobby.”
Face like thunder, Bobby shuffles from behind the desk to obey. Vance grins at him and lumbers him with the luggage.
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