For the past two days,I’ve weathered an endless stream of questions, surprised reactions, and the beginnings of what sounds like a twisted conspiracy, or at the very least some hefty blackmail I must have on Elias and Maria. Newly improvised rumors are now circulating amongst the staff.
Apart from being the worst creep alive, I’ve got zero dirt on Elias. Though if I did, I’d be hellbent on using it as a precious bargaining chip.
It’s my day off, and I plan on putting it to good use. First off, I’m going to give myself a little pep talk. I’m determined to have a positive outlook about the VIPs on my watch. After all, I’m the mistress of my own fate, and this week will see me victorious. I’ve let the past five months wear me down and it has to stop.
Toggling to my email, I read through the document Maria sent me about the guests. Luca Wolfford is arriving alone tomorrow. He’s thirty-three years old. It’s unlikely he’s the tights and underwear heir as I’m hoping, but I refuse to search him up on Google—that’s cheating. Reuben Moore is thirty-two. He’s the guy from England. Brecken Sainz is thirty. Their addresses are listed out of state, not unusual for a ski resort. And with no passport details yet supplied, there are no images to refer to.
If I’m working Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I hope that I at least get some good eye candy as compensation. My neglected lady parts perk up at that thought, a little frisson of intrigue and delight curling in my lower belly. It’s been two months since I’ve slept with a man, and I’m feeling it.
Impressing my guests—and ultimately my boss—is paramount, so I’ve scheduled in some time at the beauty salon.
I need to be immaculate.
With a spring in my step, I wolf down some breakfast and head for the salon where I’ve booked a manicure, pedicure, and wax. I got my hair cut a few weeks ago so I’m feeling pretty good about that.
Afterward, gleaming and shining, I set off to meet Emily at our favorite store, checking my email again on the way. I’ve not heard back from the company I was trying to reach in London. It’s been six days since I wrote them a fierce, demanding ultimatum, but it looks like they’re still ignoring me.
Bayard’s is a small, family-owned business in the center of town that looks like it had a former life in the Swiss Alps. The old, three-story building has a gray-weathered, wooden exterior. The windows are painted white, with pale wood shutters on either side, hearts, and other sweet decorations cut into the top and bottom. Dozens of window boxes overflowing with colorful flowers perch on the window sills, right up to the steeply pitched roof which is laden with snow.
Last night, we got another two inches. But the forecast says we’re getting a major dump over the next few days.
Emily is already out front, looking at the festive window displays.
“Hey.”
She spins, smiling. “Hi. Are we all spruced up now?”
I pull off my gloves, flashing my newly painted, buffed to perfection nails. I chose a French polish this time instead of my usual green or blue palate.
“Nice,” she murmurs, inspecting my hands. “And did the landscapers come in and strip the garden bare?” she taunts, smothering a laugh.
“Totally gutted the garden. Not a thing growing there anymore.”
“Bare is the way to go,” she says seriously as we enter the shop.
Emily unzips her white coat, pulling out platinum blonde hair from under her scarf as we head towards the women’s clothes. We browse for some time, trying on some cute dresses that catch our eye, Emily deciding to buy one.
“I need to check out the hats,” I remind her, heading over to the other side of the first floor where there’s a large selection of outerwear.
“More hats?” Emily asks, but there’s no bite to it, just teasing. “How many do you have now?”
“A couple.”
“More like twenty-thousand. Your lack of willpower really is a thing.”
I snort. “See? Now that I have that as an excuse I’m tempted to buy more.”
“It’s a good thing our apartment is tiny.”
We share a smile. “You know I’ll make room if I have to.”
“Weneedthe sofa,” she responds dryly. “I was gutted about the rattan chair, but the little chest of drawers you swapped it with has been useful, I’ll give you that.”
We check out our reflection in the mirrors as we try on just about every hat—ones with ear flaps, beanies, double-bobbles, and peaks.
“Still tempted?” Emily asks, even though she knows the answer. “Though I still don’t understand the appeal. I mean, you can’t wear them for work or under a ski helmet, so what’s the point?”
The point is that it was a tradition I had with my Mom and Dad, either one of them buying my sister and me a hat each season. One day, I’ll let Emily know the reasons behind my extensive collection.