Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145231 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 581(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Ugh.
There’s barely even a break from it at home.
Half of what Arlo draws is his new favorite person, Grumpybutt the Great. I shouldn’t, but I leave a few of his crayon sketches pinned next to my desk in the back office.
A few of the staff laugh whenever they come in, even though I don’t come out and say it’s our boss.
I guess the implication is clear in his mean blue eyes and scribbled eyebrows and that overly long tie. Always dark blue, just like his eyes. And sometimes my son goes the full mile, adding horns and a tail.
At least Patton Rory isn’t as popular as he likes to think, and it has nothing to do with our personal history.
I switch on the sleek computer, listening to the whir of the guts, and fan my notes out across the desk.
That’s how I like to work, making sense of the fragments in front of me.
It doesn’t take long to get sucked in.
A lot of guests send the surveys back with the tablets provided in the rooms. That data is easy to input, but others prefer old-school pen and paper. Particularly the older folks, who make up about a third of our current guests.
I figured that out fast the first week we opened and response rates climbed as soon as I started having physical survey cards left in each room.
I attack the physical copies first, making a pile of the completed questionnaires that grows quickly. I have my earbuds in and I’m humming to myself, jamming to my playlist and singing because I know it’s late enough to be alone back here.
I barely notice when a shadow falls over me.
And I know it’s him before I even turn.
He’s just got that aura.
Some people might call it magnetic. I’d say it’s more like he knows how to trigger my gag reflex without even being in my line of sight.
“What’s up?” I ask, swinging my chair around and hoping I don’t sound as instantly annoyed as I am.
Patton’s lips tighten.
Was he smiling a second ago?
Ever since the incident in his office where Arlo—bless his little heart—decided to defend my honor from the monster man who’s been plaguing me for weeks, Patton Rory has made a strange effort to be human.
Too bad I don’t want human.
Human makes him harder to hate, and hating him is the simplest way I have to hash out my feelings about this whole crazy situation.
But that’s another point entirely.
Humans also have parts.
And I’ve been doing my very best to not look at him too long, let alone remember how godly he looks naked.
That has no place here.
Especially not after Arlo gave him the metaphorical kick he needed to be an actual mentor.
“I just came by to check in. How are the surveys treating you?” he asks, like I should be grateful for the project.
“They’re keeping me busy and I haven’t lost any hair over them yet. So, yeah. We’re good.” I nod at the papers in front of me.
For a second, he looks at the questionnaires and frowns.
“We have that many people still using paper?”
“Some guests prefer it, believe it or not. It’s an extra step where I have to add it to the spreadsheet manually, but no big deal.” I offer him a tight smile. “I added the cards to the rooms, remember? Didn’t think it was important enough to bother you with.”
“Yeah. Good move.”
“Don’t worry about it muddying up our green commitment. It’s all sourced sustainably from a local stationary company, and I personally make sure these get recycled again once I’ve recorded the responses.”
There’s surprise in his face as he looks at me, his eyes shining.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Rory?”
He hesitates before saying, “Yes. We have to get over this name shit. I know you don’t like it, but will you please call me Patton like everyone else in this damn building?”
Oof. If only he didn’t say ‘please.’
It’s weird, seeing him respond like a real person. Dangerous, too, for reasons I prefer not to dwell on.
Calling him Patton feels even weirder, but somehow, I don’t quite know how to just shut it down.
He’s technically right. Everyone else here does call him that.
There’s an odd sort of chain of command with names and titles at Higher Ends.
For him, it’s younger brother syndrome, I suppose. That’s what our lead cleaning lady told me last week when I mentioned it.
“If you insist.” I try not to smirk as I shake my head. “Patton it is.”
Part of me thinks I should offer the same thing back and tell him to call me Salem. Not that he’s needed permission lately. But it brings back memories of a night that never should’ve happened on a riverboat casino, and asking him adds a layer of intimacy.
“Thanks.” He leans against the wall. “Mr. Rory’s my old man’s name and Archer’s sometimes. I want nothing to do with it.”