he’d lost fifty thousand dollars. Brianna restrained herself from suggesting he Google the meaning of gambling.
“I’m thinking of reporting this place to the state gambling commission for rigging the games.”
“That’s certainly your right. But I can assure you that nothing at the Midas is rigged.”
Her roots may be Irish, from a many-times-great-grandfather who’d arrived in the Pacific Northwest where he’d gotten the dangerous job of driving the dynamite wagon for the construction of the railroad, but somehow Brianna must have been busy meeting and greeting people when God had handed out tempers, because she hadn’t inherited the trait. Still, this man was beginning to test her limits.
“I’ve never lost that much in any casino in two fucking hours.”
Wow. He’d really been tossing down the high dollar chips. And, from the red veins crisscrossing his eyes like lines on a Nevada roadmap, he hadn’t turned down any of the free drinks handed out to high rollers.
“I’m sorry for your bad luck.” Having never dropped as much as a dollar in a slot machine, Brianna didn’t comprehend why anyone would want to risk hard-earned money when everyone knew that in the end, the house always eventually won, but enough people seemed to feel different to allow her to be paid a very lucrative salary with benefits and generous tips from happy guests. Especially those who’d walked away after a winning streak. “But it certainly wasn’t due to any rigging.”
He shoved the glasses back on his face. “I’m going to report you to the manager.”
“Again, that’s your right.”
Having received not only high marks, but a bonus at her annual review, Brianna wasn’t concerned about her job being in jeopardy. Usually before a guest arrived on the butler’s floor, she’d wade through her files of past likes and dislikes to ensure a stay tailored to that particular party. But because this man and his wife were first-timers, there was no previous record. And unfortunately, he’d added nothing to the comments section in the online reservation form. Such as his intense dislike of vegetarian meals.
“And after I report you, I’m going to write the worst goddamn review ever published on Yelp.” He spun on a heel and stomped off toward the gold-embossed elevator.
“I hope you have a safe and uneventful trip back home, sir,” she called after him. It was the same thing she told all the guests as they’d leave.
“I intend to, since you won’t be the one doing the planning. And quit calling me sir, bitch,” he roared back over his shoulder. “I’m an orthopedic surgeon, dammit!”
“Doctor Dick,” Brianna murmured under her breath, reminding herself that although this might not be her most fulfilling day, she was exactly where she’d always dreamed of being.
Working at the family tree farm had taught her she enjoyed working with people, helping each family find the perfect tree just for them. Watching Gilmore Girls, she’d always identified with Lorelai’s dream of creating a warm and caring environment in her very own inn, rather than working for someone else. And she’d even had a specific house in mind.
Then, while earning her degree in hospitality and hotel management, classmates and professors had tried to convince her that she’d be wasting her talents on a small town of seven thousand plus, stuck out on the Washington peninsula, where guests would have to travel by ferry or a long car ride over twisting mountain roads to visit. No, she’d been born for more important things, she’d been told. All she needed to do was give up those childish dreams of creating a life in the Pacific Northwest’s version of Star Hollow, and dream bigger. Bolder. Brighter.
It was during summer break between her sophomore and junior years, with more time to watch TV, that she’d become hooked on the Travel Channel, drinking in the splendor of the world’s grand hotels. By the time she returned to UW, she’d changed her focus, and after graduation and playing maid of honor at her best friend Zoe’s wedding to Seth Harper, she’d begun her gypsy life of traveling the country, working her way up to this gilded desk.
Dealing with demanding high rollers who expected their needs dealt with immediately, if not before they even realized they were going to want something, she’d honed her skills at making the impossible possible.
But while she might be near the pinnacle of her specialized hospitality world, there were times Brianna found herself missing those early days when she worked in less luxurious surroundings, dealing with more cordial families. Parents who’d appreciate a bowl of chicken noodle soup sent up to the room for a sick child, or honeymooners excited about something as simple as a bottle of house-labeled champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries in their room. And later showing her that they’d put a photo on their wedding Facebook and Instagram pages.
Be careful what you wish for, she thought as she cleared the desk of her planner and files to make room for the night-shift concierge to take her place.
Although she’d been offered housing in a wing of the sprawling resort away from the casino, Brianna had opted to rent a studio apartment away from the noise and bustle of the strip. Along with the rise in income, each step up the hospitality ladder had brought additional responsibility and increased stress, but whenever she drove into the quiet, green environs of The Sanctuary with its sparkling blue pools and xeriscape, drought-resistant gardens that appealed to her inner environmentalist, the stress of her workday began to flow away.
But not tonight. She’d always been a positive person. Anyone who had a flash fire temper, or was even easily annoyed, would never succeed in her career. But as she reran the conversation with the doctor who wore his privilege the same way he undoubtedly wore his white hospital coat, a low, simmering irritation flowed through her. And had her thinking, yet again, of those happier early days. She considered going to the resort’s exercise room and working it off on the treadmill and elliptical, but opted instead for take-out pizza, a glass of wine and streaming a movie.
Another reason she’d chosen this apartment was that its white walls offered a blank canvas. As did the white furniture and white kitchen. A person could do anything they wanted to make it their own. But, she realized now, though it was a respite from the overexcessive gilt of Midas, it didn’t offer a single clue to the person who lived here. She hadn’t bought any posters, or paintings, or even colorful throw pillows. And although she’d practically grown up in her mother’s farm kitchen, she owned one frying pan, two pots, a teakettle, a coffee maker and a set of four white dishes and bowls she’d bought online. A nun’s room at a convent would undoubtedly have more personality.
Then again, she reminded herself as she kicked off her sensible black pumps, changed into yoga pants and an oversize Gotham Knights football jersey her brother Burke had sent her, she didn’t exactly live here. She ate takeout and slept. Her life was at Midas. Same as it had been at every other hotel she’d worked at over the years. Which was fine with her. Dedication to her career had paid off in escalating achievements and money. And although she experienced a sense of satisfaction when she waved her magic concierge wand and provided a magical happy outcome for guests, when was the last time she’d felt happy?
“You’re just in the dumps because of Doctor Dick,” she assured herself as she poured a glass of chardonnay. After calling in her take-out order, she sat down on the hard, snowy white couch, turned on her iPad and logged into the Honeymoon Harbor website, which she’d been doing more and more often since moving to the desert two years ago.
Clicking on the link to the town’s newspaper, the Honeymoon Harbor Herald, she scrolled through announcements
