to your plight, but seeing as how I’ve just been told I’m getting kicked out of my home, I’m struggling.”
Evan tapped the side of his nose. “Ah yes, perspective.”
Evan and I spent the last forty-five minutes of our meeting reviewing my file and my customer reviews. None were negative. It was my first year where I didn’t have a single complaint about my coordination team or myself. The pride I felt was incomparable to anything else I’d felt in my career.
When Evan sent me on my way so he could meet with his next employee, there was a pep in my step from my reviews but a sinking feeling in my gut at the prospect of having to move out of my suite. I’d fallen in love with the glitz and glamour of the lifestyle I lived here. I liked my polished marble floors, my maid service, and my king-sized bed with a fluffy duvet and feather mattress cover. I slept like a baby on that thing. No, an angel.
Now I’d have to buy my own bed.
I’ll have to buy everything, I thought with horror.
I had a headache by the time I reached the lobby, where I was meeting W. Parker for his late checkout. He’d come to the hotel for a short three-night visit for yet another writing retreat. He’d been spending far more time at the El Cartana as of late than usual, and I wondered to myself if he was having issues with his book.
Usually when he made more appearances than just two or three a year, it was because he was on a deadline and his writer’s block was eating away at his insides.
Or so he’d told me.
I met Mr. Parker at the check-in desk, where he was on his phone talking heatedly into the mouthpiece. When I moved behind the desk and greeted him with a smile, he muttered to the person that he’d call them back, hung up, and smiled tiredly at me.
“Hey, Katie.”
“Mr. Parker.” I smiled. “How was your visit this go around?”
“Excellent as always. Sorry about that. My agent won’t get off my damn back. She’s like a cockroach, that woman. She can smell it when I’m struggling with my book. How do you women do that?”
“Do what?”
“Know in your bones what’s happening on the other side of the world in someone else’s head?”
I laughed. “Well, I’m not sure that’s a universal skill all women have. But that agent of yours sounds a little intimidating. Like a superhero-movie villain. You should write a book about her.”
Mr. Parker laughed. “Now that’s not a bad idea.”
I winked. “I expect royalties if you follow through with that.”
“Consider it done.”
I pulled up his account on the computer and began the process of checking him out. “Where do you usually find inspiration for your love stories? I’ve always wondered.”
He shrugged and leaned against my desk. “I suppose I write about what I dream of having one day.”
A pang of sadness hit me and I looked up at him. For someone who was such a romantic at heart, it surprised me that he still hadn’t found the love he wrote about.
Mr. Parker gave me a knowing smile. “I know my time is coming. Besides, the best women are worth waiting for, right?”
“Or writing about until they come around,” I added.
“Indeed.”
Chapter 33
Peter
My kitchen was full of smoke.
It wasn’t the good kind of cooking smoke either, the kind that smelled like onions and maybe some lightly charred potatoes. No, this smelled like I’d tried to set fire to my little cabin in the jungle with my oven and a box of matches.
I coughed as I smothered my mouth and nose in my elbow and leaned over the stove, using my free hand and an old worn-out oven mitt to pull the tray of ribs out of the oven. I’d accidentally hit broil when I turned the oven on, and what had been slow-cooked, tender, perfect ribs just fifteen minutes ago now resembled pieces of charcoal with a bone stuck through them.
“Shit,” I breathed, dropping the tray heavily onto the stovetop.
Katie was on her way over and I’d specifically invited her so I could cook her a meal. All the domesticated vibes from our trip to LA had given me the itch to prepare a home-cooked meal for her. Usually when there wasn’t a beautiful girl to impress, I was fairly competent in the kitchen.