Cottage roofs scattered through jungle greenery stepped down the hill before her, dipping down to a gorgeous crescent beach and a shimmering green ocean, waves lapping invitingly, even from this vantage. A few bigger buildings were artistically arranged to the south, and an enormous pool gleamed from a white tiled deck.
The grounds were lush shades of green, with riotous flowers everywhere providing spots of color and a distinct, dreamy scent.
“Excuse me,” an impatient accented voice said behind her, and before she could move aside, she was being elbowed aside by a man carrying a suitcase whose bland white suit did nothing to hide the fact that he was clearly a bodyguard.
“Excuse me,” Laura snapped, moving back inside the entrance. It was a little more crowded than the brochure had suggested. The courtyard was filled with people waiting to check
in, and heaps of suitcases and travel bags lined the walls. They were clustered in groups — little flocks of attendants for each of the Mr. Shifter candidates, with their dark glasses and celebrity expectations.
“We’ll need fresh linens every day, of course.” The woman’s American accent was strident and demanding.
“Of course! We’ll do everything possible to make your stay pleasant and memorable.” Laura recognized the clerk’s silky, Spanish-accented tone at once. She’d worked in hospitality before; that was the ‘your coffee will be spit into twice daily, you bitch’ voice.
Beside the American woman, a man was leaning on the counter. He was definitely one of the Mr. Shifter contestants, his shirt unbuttoned halfway showed plenty of tanned pecs and he caught Laura’s glance to give her an overly white-toothed, leering grin.
“We’ll need breakfast delivered promptly at 9 each morning,” his assistant continued.
“I’m sorry ma’am, food is only served at the restaurant. It is open 24 hours with a limited self-serve buffet, and has regular meals at...“
“There’s no room service?” her voice escalated a scale. “What kind of fly-by-night resort is this?”
The clerk’s voice remained steady. “I think you’ll find the breakfasts our chef makes are worth the early trip,” she said cheerfully.
“What are the bar hours?” the Mr Shifter contestant asked in a lazy Californian accent. That clinched Laura’s guess that this was the American representation, and she was already embarrassed for her country.
“Wine and beer are available in coolers at all hours, the staffed bar is open until midnight each night.” The woman pushed their keycards over the counter with a pamphlet. “You’re in cottage eight, here is a map that shows you the way; your cottage is circled in red. There’s a schedule of events listed here.”
“You don’t have anything closer to the beach?” It was half whine, half kissing up, in a lightning fast swap of attitude as the assistant realized that she might need leverage with the clerk.
Laura was impressed by the clerk’s sweet, even response. “I’m sorry, we’re booked solid for the next week.”
“Well, I suppose it will have to do, then.”
From her tone, Laura could already imagine the Yelp review that the American assistant was composing in her head. ‘Resort was not able to accommodate my many and ridiculous demands. Terrible service. Spotted several insects. Staff in foreign country had actual accents.’
She was smirking over the idea in her head when Mr. America caught her eye again and he seemed to think her smile was about him. He winked, and Laura could feel the smile on her face freeze and turn brittle.
She was done with men. Pretty faces and nice muscles and her own destructive attraction to self-centered jerks had gotten Laura into this mess in the first place.
She wasn’t going to make all those same mistakes again.
She scowled back, and Mr. America looked surprised. She stalked back to her modest pile of luggage and waited while his assistant fussed about having their bags delivered and kvetched about how far it was to walk and how steep it looked. She admired the courtyard instead, with its lovely planters full of exotic things. Green vines draped down in veils from the center of the open yard, and the indirect light was gorgeous and otherworldly.
The Americans finally left, and two sets of Asian contingencies checked in. These, too, were clearly Mr. Shifter contestants with their assistants and a bodyguard apiece. The one that Laura guessed was Mr. China did his own registration, an assistant and an older man who may have been a trainer or a bodyguard waiting behind him. The other let his cheerfully forward assistant handle everything while he smiled and nodded a lot.
The last one before Laura in line was an eastern European man with incredibly green eyes and thick dark hair. A tropical white shirt did nothing to hide his incredible physique. He waited haughtily across the room with their luggage reading his phone while his secretary tripped across the room to complete their registration. She was uselessly giggly, had lost the confirmation number, and it took several extra moments while she fumbled for the correct credit card.
“I’m sorry it’s taken so long,” the woman behind the counter said with her lilting Spanish accent when Laura was finally able to approach. Her nametag said “Lydia.”
“No worries,” Laura said warmly, giving a wry smile of understanding. “You’ve had your hands full. Jenny Smith.”
Lydia’s professional smile broadened. “Do you have your confirmation number?”
Laura had used her copious waiting time to find her numbers and get Jenny’s credit card, and she gave them both to Lydia.
“Perfect,” Lydia said gratefully. “We’ve got you in the hotel, room 320 on the top floor.” She said it neutrally, probably knowing how it sounded after the fancy cottage assignments she’d given to the Mr. Shifters before her.
“That sounds great,” Laura said genuinely.