“We have breakfast daily and coffee service all day. The bar offers some snacks. Typically, guests dine off-premises. We try to encourage them to support our local restaurants.”
“Are they open this time of year?”
“Normally, yes, but not at this time of night.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to make do with snacks, then.” I paused before continuing, gathering my rapidly thinning patience. “Should I order something to be sent to my room? Or is that not available either?”
“I’ll have something brought up if you like,” she stated.
I closed my hand around the key. “Thank you.”
“George—Mr. Walsh—asked me to remind you he’ll meet with you tomorrow morning.
He apologizes for not being able to meet you himself tonight—he is indisposed. I’ll show you to his office at ten tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I huffed, suddenly angry with the man who insisted I come to Pinegrove in the dead of winter and disrupt my busy life.
“Have a pleasant night, Mr. Maxwell.”
I nodded, striding over to the elevators, not bothering to answer her.
I highly doubted it.
MY DELUXE, ALL-INCLUSIVE ROOM WAS exactly what I expected after the day I’d had: horrible.
I sat down heavily on the corner of the well-worn love seat and scanned the room—the dull beige walls, the queen-sized bed with a loud plaid bedspread and matching curtains. A tall armoire was in the corner, the doors open, showing the old TV on the top shelf and a minute refrigerator underneath. A coffeemaker was on the table, a short tower of foam cups ready to use beside it. The one other piece of furniture in the room was a chipped desk with a lamp on it and a lumpy-looking chair in front of it. A partially opened door offered me a view of a shower and dingy tiles in the bathroom.
I had to admit it was scrupulously clean, yet the entire thing was downright depressing—and the worst part . . .
No Courvoisier in sight.
I leaned over and grabbed the phone, almost laughing when I saw the push buttons and the old clunky square design—but the avocado green color was the topper.
I punched zero and waited.
“Front desk, Alex speaking, how may I help you?”
“Is it Alexis or Alex?” I barked out.
“Whichever you prefer, Mr. Maxwell.”
“Fine, Alex,” I snapped, knowing the familiarity would piss her off. “My Courvoisier.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My assistant was supposed to have arranged a bottle of Courvoisier in my room. It’s not here. Did you not get the message?”
“I’ll have it sent up with your dinner.”
I snorted. My snacks—right. It should be a great dinner.
“I’d like it now.”
Alex’s voice dropped, its tone icy-polite. “Right away, sir.”
“Thank you.” I hung up and sat back, wondering why it bothered me what her tone sounded like.
I returned some emails and a few texts, then stood to stretch, checking my watch. It had been twenty minutes. Apparently, now meant something different in Pinegrove from other parts of the country. Shaking my head, I grabbed my toiletry bag and went to have a shower.