Chapter Three - Nolan
The Smitten Kitten.
I can’t. I just can’t in good conscience do this. I press Mr. Corporate’s contact on my screen and call him up.
“Mr. Weston Conrad’s office, Janet speaking. How can I help you?”
“Janet, it’s Nolan. I need him.” And why the hell is Janet answering his private line?
“He’s out of the office today. Shall I take a message, Mr. Delaney?”
“When will he be back? I really need to talk to him.”
“He didn’t say. But I presume tomorrow since he has a full schedule.”
“All right. I’ll try him at home. Thanks.”
I end the call and press Corporate’s home number but it just rings through to voicemail. “I agreed to your little plan, but the Smitten Kitten? You’re joking, right? He will eat that shit up, West. And not in a good way.” I stare out the window, watching a limo pull into the long drive that leads up to Hundred Palms Resort. Who is this? “Call me back, asshole. We need to make new arrangements.”
I end the call and stand up to get a better look at the car. It winds its way down the long drive, half hidden by the wall of palm trees that line it, and then pulls smoothly into the valet area, disappearing from view.
I look down at my roster for today. We’ve got two guys here interviewing. Oh, yeah. I see the folder that Claudette mentioned peeking out from under a stack of papers. I forgot all about this one.
I sit back down and open the folder. Ivy Rockwell. She’s a Brown alumna, which is probably why West sent her over. He has this stupid loyalty to our almost-alma mater that it most certainly does not deserve.
I never graduated from Brown. None of us did. They treated us like criminals. Accused us all of rape, kicked us out, bad-mouthed us to the press. And if that wasn’t enough, I have it on good authority that the president of Brown at the time called all his buddies and ruined all our plans of applying to other schools.
By the time the charges were dropped, it was too late. All five of us had moved on to making money and going back to college was the last thing on our minds. I am the first person in my family in over one hundred years to not go to college.
Well, fuck them. I didn’t need a fancy education to pull off a win. I won. Am winning. And I’m certainly not interested in this Ivy girl, that’s for sure. West sent her, so I’ll see her, but that’s all I’ll do. She’s on the next flight back to… I check her file real fast… Rhode Island. Jesus. She still lives near Brown. Obviously not the kind of person I’m looking for right now. Probably some timid do-gooder who is afraid to fly the nest.
West might be the best headhunter in the country right now, but I’m afraid he missed his mark on this girl.
I guess the Smitten Kitten fiasco West has gotten me into will have to wait until tonight. Now I’ve got three people here interviewing and I need to make a decision about going forward. I grab the new girl’s folder and head out of my office to the stairs. Voices carry in the large cathedral foyer where the guests check in. I can make out Claudette and the new girl chatting.
She has a nice voice. Too bad I don’t hire managers based on sweet pitch. I descend the stairwell that takes me from business offices to resort and emerge just to the left of the front desk.
We have two people running the desk today. Only about a dozen guests right now, since our soft opening on Monday, but this is our dry run. We’re ironing out wrinkles and preparing the marketing campaign for the grand opening next month.
Miss Rockwell is… well, easy on the eyes.
Don’t fall for it, Romantic. Don’t do it.
I don’t need the internal monologue to warn me of the dangers of an office romance. I had my fill with the last manager.
She quit. And she’s probably going to sue me for sexual harassment.
Fucking women. Can’t trust them.
Nope, I need a man to do this job. Preferably one of the two middle-aged guys currently laboring away in separate offices upstairs, working on an innovative way to improve guest experience and make this place work.
But… Miss Rockwell is pretty. And by pretty, I mean, hell, yeah. I wouldn’t mind some of that action.
Just not at work, Romantic.
Got it.
Miss Rockwell is wearing a cream-colored linen suit that says professional. But it’s cut just above the knee, so it also says sexy. Her silky blouse is light pink, which tells me she’s girly. I like girly. And she’s got her blonde hair up in a tight bun, so I can’t tell how long it is.
Yeah, Miss Rockwell says buttoned-up businesswoman by day and unbutton-me party girl by night. I know her kind.
I walk over, extending my hand. “Miss Ivy Rockwell, I’m Nolan Delaney. Welcome to Hundred Palms Resort. I trust you had a nice flight?”
“Oh, yes!” She laughs. Has she been drinking? I think I smell alcohol. Well, I’ve had a drink or two on a flight. But it’s barely noon.
Hold up. She’s on East Coast time. I guess that makes it afternoon for her. Must’ve been a lunch cocktail.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Delaney.” I hate hearing that word mister. Every time someone calls me Mr. Delaney all I hear is Mr. Romantic. She smiles confidently and shakes my hand with a soft grip.
Normally I hate the soft grip, but only with men. The only thing worse than a soft grip on a man is a firm grip on a woman. Every time I get a firm handshake from a woman I picture those overly muscular female body builders.
Miss Rockwell’s soft grip is so feminine, I almost bring her hand to my lips and kiss it.
Instead I laugh at my ridiculousness.
Her smile falters and she lets go of my hand. “Am I late?”
So… not that confident after all.
“Not really,” I say, checking my watch. “I knew you were coming today.”
“Are the others already here?” she asks, looking around.
“Already working, in fact. Denise,” I call to one of the front desk girls. “Put Miss Rockwell in room twenty-one. And then—”
“Mr. Delaney?” Denise interrupts. “We booked that room. The Gurrods wanted separate rooms.”
“Jesus Christ. Can’t those two get along for one goddamned weekend?” I roll my eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Gurrod are old family friends. I only asked them here for the soft opening because my father said Mr. Gurrod wanted to see the place before he invested money into it.
I don’t need the investors, but it would be nice, for once, to have help. God knows, my father hasn’t helped one bit. Nolan, he said. You have a trust fund. If you don’t want to finish college, then everything you do from here on out is going to be with your own money.
And so it has been. But Mr. Gurrod’s investment would go a long way into making Hundred Palms everything I envisioned when I bought the land five years ago.
“How about—”
“All the finished rooms are full, Mr. Delaney,” Denise says, grimacing. “We weren’t expecting her.”
“Surely there is a room for Miss Rockwell, Denise? You were expecting her. I told you—” Well, I didn’t tell them. I hardly talk to them. “Claudette told you this yesterday.”
“We have a room, Nol. Just relax.” Claudette’s hands latch onto my arm and she smiles up at me. “Go do something and I’ll take care of Miss Rockwell.”
I look down at my sister and manage a smile. She has been helpful, at least. She’s a big part of why I’m even giving this whole resort thing a go. I have seven nightclubs in Southern California, but the club scene is starting to bore me. And it’s filled with partiers. I’m sick of partiers. I’m ready for high-end hotels and high-class people. People who spend a lot of money, and not on drinks. They spend money on thousand-dollar spa days and outrageous green fees.
But land in San Diego is expensive. Land out here, practically worthless. I spent a lot of money building this resort and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the project flop.
“Fine,” I say, prying Claudette’s hands off my arm. “We have a meeting tonight at six, Miss Rockwell. I’ll introduce you to the other candidates, then we can discuss how you might contribute.”
It’s only after the words are out of my mouth that I realize I meant to have her on a plane back to Rhode Island tonight. Well, maybe the meeting can be short? Maybe one of the two men upstairs will have a brilliant idea and I can get this interview business over with?
I don’t amend, just turn and walk back upstairs to my office, eager to figure out where the hell Weston Conrad is so I can tell him his Mr. Match plan is shit.