Page 20 of Please Send Snow
Join the club, honey. Margo eats people like you and me for breakfast.
Apparently the influencer is satisfied that no onenoticed, because the next thing I hear is her choosing a cabin and the jingle of the sleigh bells that hang from the door of the key cabinet.
“Enjoy your stay, Miss Jones,” Margo says in a bored way.
“It’s just Penelope,” the influencer replies, the breathy voice gone and replaced with what really sounds like a Brooklyn accent. “Can we take that again? Here, I’ll give you the key back.”
I can’t help looking up just in time to see Margo roll her eyes as she takes the key and pretends to retrieve it from the cabinet again.
“Enjoy your stay, Penelope,” she says, throwing in a too-sweet smile this time.
“Thanks a bunch,” Penelope replies in her breathy voice before glancing down at her cameraman. “Okay, we got it. Come on, Tony.”
He hops up and trots after her when she flags down Michael.
Focus, Maddie,I remind myself as I turn my attention back to the laptop in front of me.
I wasn’t really counting on breaking my unproductive streak today. I’m a little stressed out, and a lot hungry. But somehow instead of staring at the screen, I find myself writing. The words come slowly but steadily and the lobby fades away as I get more and more lost in the story.
The next thing I know a blast of frigid air lifts my hair and I look up to notice that the elderly couple from yesterday is already on the sofa again, sipping the blisteringly hot lobby coffee, as Jake and Dylan step inside.
Jake is on the phone though, so he just starts pacing around without saying a word to me or to Margo, who is smoothing down her hair and pulling up her posture so that she looks like a dancer, or a marionette. Something about her display sends an unexpected twinge of jealousy through me. But that’s just silly. What do I have to be jealous about? She’s not going to steal my job. And I have absolutely no romantic interest in Jake Stone.
None whatsoever.
“Maddie,” Dylan calls as he scampers over to me. “Are you making a spreadsheet?”
“Um, no,” I tell him, looking down at the laptop. I guess as far as Dylan knows from his dad, computers are just spreadsheet machines. “I’m writing a book.”
“What’s it about?” he asks, his little face tilting like he’s a golden retriever and I’ve got a tennis ball.
“It’s a story about Christmas—” I begin.
“Can I write another letter?” he asks suddenly, his eyes sparkling.
“Sure,” I tell him, closing my laptop and sticking it in my bag. “Be right back.”
I hop up to grab the pad of paper and pen from the counter.
Fortunately, Margo is turned partly away from me, texting furiously, which is kind of surprising. She wanted so badly to look professional when Jake walked in and now she’s all over her phone like a teen after a breakup.
But it’s none of my business. I’m just happy not to get caught swiping the stationary.
“Okay,” I tell Dylan, returning to the table. “Let’s get started.”
He smiles and takes the pen and paper from me. A moment later his brow is scrunched in concentration as he gets to work.
But he hasn’t even finished the first line of his letter when Anna from the kitchen enters the lobby with a tray and marches in our direction. She’s wearing lipstick and earrings, which feels very much out of character for someone who seems like her only goal is to not attract attention. And for some reason, she stops right in front of me.
“Your Quiche Lorraine, Miss Foster,” she blurts out a little too loudly. Her eyes are wide, like she’s a deer in the headlights.
“I didn’t order—” I begin.
But over at the counter, Margo is waving for my attention. When I look up she makes a cut-throat motion at me, and then mimes eating.
She’s going to kill me. And… eat me?
She points at the plate Anna is setting down and I realize she means I should stop saying it’s not mine and just chow down.
