“Oh, not at all, Miss!” Emilio’s deep laughter pulls me out of my thoughts. “Our resort is built to withstand the strongest of hurricanes, and the worst of this storm won’t hit anywhere near us.”
I look over at Georgia, who doesn’t look the slightest bit soothed. She’s clutching her bag against her chest and rocking back and forth as if we’re seconds away from approaching the end of the world.
“I double-checked everything,” I whisper. “We’re going to be fine. Trust me.”
She ignores me and continues to pepper the driver with questions about the weather.
It doesn’t take long for the sky to redress in blue as Emilio promised, and by the time the grey clouds have drifted away, we’re approaching the end of a street.
The massive wooden gate to The Excellence Resort swings open, and my jaw drops to the floor. The lush greenery ahead is a far cry from my concrete jungle in Manhattan.
I turn on my phone to take pictures, but before I can snap one, a text message crosses my screen.
Bastard Boss (Don’t Answer): I heard that you’ve contracted a “flesh eating disease” and won’t be able to join us in Hawaii … Is this true?
I know that I shouldn’t answer--that I should ignore him until I return to Manhattan, but I can’t help it.
Me: Yes. The worst pain I’ve ever felt.
Bastard Boss (Don’t Answer): I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Grey. That sounds quite unfortunate, and I hope you get well soon.
Me: Thank you so much for your concern, Mr. West. I truly hope the “party” in Hawaii goes well without me. (So that you know, I was looking forward to attending. It seemed like a fantastic resort!)
He sends me three more messages, but I don’t open them. Instead, I mute my inbox and snap as many photos of the passing scenery as I can.
“Okay, you may be forgiven for bringing me here after all,” Georgia says. “This place is absolutely gorgeous.”
When the driver pulls up in front of the resort, the concierge greets us with flowers.
“We’ve upgraded your room, Miss Grey,” he says to me. “Our manager was hoping to greet you in person, but he sends his regards. Please follow my lead as the bellman handles your bags.”
We follow him through a maze of tall palm trees and stone-white buildings. Sparkling blue pools and gardens greet us every two minutes until we approach a standalone villa.
“This is the best suite in the entire resort,” he says, unlocking the door and revealing a world of opulence.
I can hardly contain my excitement as he shows off the amenities.
Private swim-up pool and ocean view. Personal butler and luxury bedding service. Unlimited dessert and alcohol.
No Garrett West.
After he shows us a bonus pool on the roof, Georgia pops open a bottle of champagne, and I flop onto a flamingo float.
“How about a toast?” she says. “First one is to you.”
“No.” I wait for her to pour my glass. “First one is to escaping mandatory attendance …”
The following morning, I roll over in bed at four o’clock out of habit. My brain is wired to West Media’s holiday schedule, so I open my laptop and start checking my emails.
To my surprise, Mr. West hasn’t sent me a single message, and the only urgent thing I need to do is thank my Secret Santa sender: Jerry in Marketing. He’s given me a Starbucks gift card, an ‘I hope you enjoy reading this’ note, and a paperback copy of How to Deal with an Overbearing Boss.
I own three copies of this book already, and I’ve listened to the audio version countless times, but I tell him that I’m “thrilled” to have a new book to read.
My eyes catch sight of another email—a task I know Mr. West will lose his mind over, and before I know it, I’m ordering room service coffee and handling projects as the minutes slip into hours.
“Working on your vacation already?” Georgia steps into my room around ten, donning a bright red bikini. “Is there another emergency business deal you have to handle?”
“No.” I shut it before tossing it onto the bed. “I’m ready to relax whenever you are.”
“Prove it.” She crosses her arms.
I change into a swimsuit under her watchful eyes, pull my hair up into a bun, and then I grab a few towels before following her to the beach.
As we set our chairs near the shore, the resort’s concierge walks over with a white envelope.
“Miss Grey?” he asks. “I’ve just received an urgent wire message for you.”
“Your manager is being a little over the top.” I smile. “It’s okay that he didn’t personally check us in, I promise.”
“It’s not from our manager, Miss. It’s from a Mr. Garrett West.”
“From a who?” My voice cracks. “What name did you just say?”
“Mr. Garrett West of West Media.” He reads the front of the envelope. “He says that it’s an emergency, and that it is imperative that you read it.”