Page 25 of Tasty Cherry

I shrug. “I’m fussed that you seem intent on blowing an opportunity graciously dropped into your lap.”

He shoves half of a slider in his gullet and sniffs as he chews. He does at least take a moment to swallow before he says, “The way I see it, I don’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell of becoming event manager, not with all the estrogen in the room.”

“Don’t be sexist.” I turn my back to Raya, so she can’t see my face as I get stern. “You can decide to lowball your experience here, but there are some things nobody is going to stand for, and I will not get in the way of you getting kicked out on your ass if you cross the line.”

He frowns at that.

“So cool it with your act. I know you’re smarter than that. You were raised by good people. Knock it off.”

And I’m done with him for one day.

Button mashed.

I head over to Owen, careful to skirt Mila and the sunny blonde Brooklyn, who are headed to the buffet. The other new intern, Ilsa, is speaking with Havannah.

Owen has a dreamy expression, no doubt inspired by the food.

“It’s good, right?” I say.

“Ungodly.” He turns his plate around in his hands, as if not sure where to dive in next.

“When you’re done, we have some carts ready to help you transport your things.”

“I already have it all in my room,” Owen says. “I just had the two suitcases I came with.”

That’s not much. “You’re from Oklahoma, right?”

“Born and bred. I don’t have a car here, so I only brought what I could manage on the bus.”

“We can arrange to have more shipped if you need it.”

He shrugs. “I don’t need much else.” He takes a bite from his plate, which is stacked high. He got one of everything. He seems to be forcing himself to slow down.

He has a friendly, golden retriever look to him. Shaggy brown hair, lean. He wears khakis and a sweater, but they’ve seen better days. His shoes, too, are worn, brown loafers scuffed at the toe.

He’ll be eager to impress, I bet. He probably bootstrapped his way through college and made the most of every opportunity he got.

“Did you intern in college?” I ask.

He picks up a skewer. “I worked at a nice hotel in Norman.”

“Did you see things that could use improving?”

He gulps the bite he shoveled in while I asked the question. “Everywhere. The front desk was inefficient. They were understaffed in housekeeping and room service. Everyone was run ragged all the time.”

“And this was a good hotel?”

“It’s considered upscale for the area, but the definition of that varies based on where you are.” He glances around the staff room. “This place is unbelievable.”

“It’s got a lot of character. We don’t try to run it like a Ritz-Carlton or Four Seasons. We have a lot of families. We want to keep it Boulder friendly.”

“But you have one of the most sought-after secret suites in the world,” he says.

So he knows about it. Word is getting out.

“We do. You can only book it by talking directly to me. How did you hear of it?” I came on board only a year after the castle opened, and I personally know every person who was officially told about the secret suite since then.

“I wasn’t sure until now.” His eyes are mischievous.

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