“Nope,” I said, freeing my black coffee from the cardboard tray. I took a sip and savored the rich flavor on my tongue.
Ginny held her cup in both hands and breathed in the caramel smell of her latte through the small hole in the lid. “Delicious. Thanks, Katie.”
Ginny had worked with me for over four years. She’d started at the El Cartana as a clerk at the check-in counters but had been quickly promoted to customer relations, where she mostly answered phones and emails and took care of disgruntled guests. The work crushed her spirit, and by that point, she and I had become friends, so I spoke with the owner, pulled a few strings, and brought her on as my first assistant.
When my career took off and I became the main reason why people wanted to come to the hotel, I was granted another assistant, Roman.
Roman finished steaming his side of the curtains and stepped dramatically through them like a fashion model, pausing to give us a glorious spin on the heel of his powder-blue shoes. “What did sweet Hop make me this morning?”
“Hazelnut Americano,” I said.
Roman clapped his hands together gleefully. He wore several rings and his nails were painted a shiny nude color. For a while there, he’d been sporting fuchsia and purples, but I had to ask him to tone it down and go for more neutral shades to adhere to the hotel dress code. I preferred the jovial colors myself, but rules were rules, and the El Cartana ran smoothly because of them.
He and Ginny were polar opposites.
Where Roman was out and loud and more than a little opinionated, Ginny was quiet and reserved. She worked best in a quiet room with little to no distractions, where Roman preferred background music worthy of singing along to and as much company as he could get.
They were the perfect balance and my dynamic duo. Without them, I wouldn’t be half as successful at my job and I made sure they knew it. Recognition was important.
Almost as important as morning coffees.
“So what’s left to do?” I peered around the suite. It looked pristine. Every surface glittered and sparkled in the morning sun.
“Florals,” Roman said. “I called down to the florist. She’s bringing them up shortly.”
“And the fruit basket,” Ginny said.
Roman fetched a leather-bound notebook from where it sat on one of the white sofas. He scanned what I imagined was a checklist. “And that’s it, doll faces. This suite will be ready for Mr. and Mrs. Trethuie—how the fuck do you pronounce this?”
I giggled. “Tre-thew-ee.”
Roman shook his head and scrunched up his nose in distaste. The small sparkly stone in his right nostril sparkled. “Ugh. Why would she take a horrible name like that?”
“It’s called love, Roman,” Ginny said dryly.
He rolled his eyes. “It’s called hideous.”
“They have a beautiful story,” I said as I fluffed the pillows on the sofas. “They met when they were in college, but both of them were seeing other people. She went on a two-year overseas study program to Edinburgh and he stayed behind. They lost touch. Then after she came home and both of them had ended their relationships, they bumped into each other at a wedding. They’ve been inseparable ever since.”
Roman tossed the checklist on the coffee table. “You think every one of your couples has a beautiful story, Katie.”
I shrugged. “Because they do.”
“I steadfastly disagree.” Roman moved to the window to finish steaming Ginny’s side of the curtains while she called down to double-check on the florals being brought up. “Remember that wealthy couple from London who were here last spring?”
“The Castors?”
He nodded. “Yes. Them. They met in a back alley in Rome after partying too hard. She was puking her guts out and he mistook her for one of his friends, they were so hammered.”
“What’s so wrong with that?” I asked.
He blinked at me. “It’s… icky.”
Ginny hung up the phone. “She’s on her way up right now. We have red and white rose petals coming and three arrangements. Two for the living room and one for the bedroom. She’s also bringing the champagne and fruit at the same time.”
“Perfect,” I said. “And for the record, just because a relationship starts out in an unconventional way doesn’t mean it’s icky. Having a funny story to tell instead of a romantic one is just as good, if not better.”
Roman shook his head. “No. No. No. My soul mate is out there in the world somewhere, and if I met