The Man Ban - Nicola Marsh Page 0,13

her house, had worked in catering for high-end social events before following her passion for food styling.

All very interesting, but he wanted to know what else sparked her passion . . .

With a groan, he flung his cell onto the bed and resumed packing. Maybe a week away in New Zealand for a medical conference on the latest and greatest ER advances would be just what the doctor ordered?

The fact he was resorting to lame puns even in his own head reinforced his need to get away and stop dwelling on a woman for the first time in forever.

11

Harper had always had a thing for hotels.

Ever since she was little, her parents would take her away with them wherever they went. They’d been on family holidays to Singapore, Bali, and Vanuatu, and while those trips had been great, she’d enjoyed the staycations in posh Melbourne hotels just as much. She’d loved everything about those long-weekend stays, from ordering indulgent room service to the tiny toiletries, from crisply tucked sheets to pay-per-view movies.

So as she stepped into the foyer of the new Storr Hotel in Auckland, she exhaled in relief, like she’d come home. Glancing around the opulent lobby, she didn’t know where to look first. The funky curved stainless steel reception desk took pride of place along the far wall, which was covered in large asymmetrical wooden panels. A turquoise bar and aluminum-clad terrace to her right looked like the perfect place to chill with a drink while waiting for check-in. The striking red sofas and stylish white leather seats curved around low-slung Carrara marble coffee tables, while lush green plants invited the outside in.

She loved anything esthetically pleasing, and this hotel delivered. She inhaled, allowing the intoxicating smell of paint and new floor coverings to permeate her lungs, and knew this job could be the start of something big for her.

The hotel had opened last week, and she’d read rave reviews online. The restaurant, one of many high-end eateries around the world bearing the name of famous Scottish chef Jock McKell, had local diners flocking, and the thought of styling food for the major magazine campaign Wayne Storr wanted had her subduing an urge to dance a jig right in the middle of this plush foyer.

Jock McKell had been at the hotel opening, but she doubted she’d get to meet him. Probably just as well, as she’d had a major crush on the fifty-something chef ever since she’d started working in the food industry, and she’d rather not make a fool of herself when styling his food for photography was so important. She’d made enough of a fool of herself with that whipped cream incident at Nishi’s wedding, and Manny’s text on her cell had been burning a hole in her pocket since she’d received it four days ago.

She’d toyed with responding but couldn’t come up with something that sounded as witty and lighthearted as his text. She’d never been any good at trading quips, and the fact that she’d embarrassed herself so totally with him made composing a response even harder.

She’d half expected him to send a follow-up text, but her phone had remained annoyingly silent. Then again, isn’t that what she wanted? She needed to focus on doing a kick-ass job here and not dwell over a dashing doctor who’d annoyed the hell out of her but kissed like a dream.

After checking in and dumping her stuff in a room with a view of the impressive Sky Tower, she grabbed her laptop and headed for the function room where she’d be styling the food tomorrow. The hotel had several large banquet rooms they used for conferences, and judging by the number of men and women wearing immaculate suits with lanyards around their necks and heading toward the dining room, there must be a conference on now.

The head chef was waiting for her in the function room, and after introductions, he took her through the rundown for tomorrow: the order in which he’d be cooking dishes, the preparation times between each for photography, and any last-minute specifications from Jock McKell himself.

Perspiration trickled down the back of her neck as the implications of what she had to do set in, but the chef assured her the assistant they’d assigned her, a woman named Kylie, was experienced with food styling and the job would proceed smoothly.

However, she’d feel a lot more comfortable once she holed up in her room and studied up on Jock’s green-lipped mussels with garlic and parsley,