“The only one who should be worried about trouble is her new husband. If he—”
I slipped out of the meeting room and rushed down the halls toward the lobby. The sound of my assistants bickering followed me until I rounded the corner. Ginny was right. Roman had to tread carefully when it came to talking about our guests. If word ever got back to them about the things he was saying, he’d be fired on the spot, and my job might be at risk too for allowing such behavior.
But still, when you worked in the service industry for so long and you had an insufferable client who didn’t seem to give a damn about how demanding they were or how hard they were making you work, it made the bad days a little easier to sit back and have a couple of laughs at their expense.
Or rather, at Mrs. Delacroix’s expense.
I was thankful for the decision I’d made this morning to forgo putting on another pair of heels as I rushed across the lobby. My sandals were gold and shiny, and they looked good with my white dress, but the best part was that they were as flat as I used to be before I started taking birth control. The sandals slapped against the marble floors and the concrete as I emerged outside and caught a cab. I ended up having to share it with another couple who had not used my honeymoon-coordinator services but were staying at the hotel in the lower-level suites. They were friendly and chatted my ear off about their trip so far, and I smiled and nodded, pleased to hear they were having a good time but distracted by the panic in my chest over the Delacroix crisis.
I can’t believe a fruit basket can cause you so much stress these days, I thought to myself when I got out of the back of the cab at the market.
Before this job, I would’ve laughed at such a ludicrous scenario. Prior to working with people of the same social status as the Delacroixs, I never would have understood how something as simple as fruit could lead to a royal headache of the likes I’d never experienced before. But I’d done my part with couples like this. I knew exactly how this cookie would crumble and I would rather go on a panicked shopping trip to the market in hopes that the Delacroixs never found out about the fruit mishap over owning up to it and having to play catch up for their entire honeymoon to make it up to them.
For people like the Delacroixs, making it up to them was damn near impossible.
I hurried along the stands at the market in search of the brightest, ripest, juiciest fruit. I found papaya and mango, two things that were specially requested, as well as shaved dried coconut for a special treat. I got a little fancy with it and found homemade cocoa, which was sold in beautiful little bags secured with a purple ribbon. I found pineapple and strawberries and resolved to go back to the hotel to find the right basket to put the gift together.
With some luck, the guests would never know we’d given their basket to another couple.
“Fingers crossed,” I breathed as I slipped away from the tables and began making my way through the market. It was busy today, way busier than I expected.
Someone clipped my shoulder and my bag spilled over.
“Shit,” I hissed, dropping to a crouch to pick everything up and cram it back in the bag. “I don’t have time for this!”
I swept my hair over my shoulder, stood up, and carried on as I tucked the bag of cocoa back into the produce bag.
A man turned from a table and slammed straight into me.
I let out a startled yelp and fell right on my ass.
My produce bag spilled open again and I let out a primal cry as I threw myself over the fruit to stop it from being trampled by careless strangers.
The man who’d knocked me down muttered a string of panicked apologies and crouched down in front of me. “Miss? Are you okay? I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there. I can be so clumsy. Are you hurt?”
I shook my head as I frantically collected my fruit. “I’m okay. I wasn’t looking where I was going. I just—” I broke off when I looked up at him.