Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77354 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
I get into the lobby and scan the walls for a directory, but it’s all backlit marble and looks more like a spa than a reception space.
“Can I help you?” asks a small woman from behind one of the two mammoth desks that run either side of the lobby.
I stride toward her. “Actually, I was wondering what floor Fort Inc. is on?”
Her expression is blank and she turns to her computer screen. “I’m sorry, we have no record of that company here.”
I pause before I respond. I can’t tell if she knows she’s bullshitting me or not. Like, has she never heard of Fort Inc.? Do they rent this place incognito? Or is she used to being asked and making an excuse to get rid of people? Either way, there’s no point in pushing it. I smile. “Thanks.” I turn and head out the door.
I didn’t expect it to be easy, did I?
It’s getting late and the only other thing I had planned was to check out the hotel where I’ll be working for the next few months. Lucky for me, one of my sister’s inherited brothers-in-law has an apartment in New York City, where I’ll be staying. It also happens to be a block from the hotel, situated on Fifth Avenue overlooking the park. Lucky me.
I cut through Central Park to reach the hotel. It probably takes twenty minutes, but all the new sights and sounds eat away at the time. In what feels like seconds, the doorman of The Avenue is welcoming me inside the elegant lobby.
My joining instructions say the staff entrance is East 60th Street, and I make a mental note to head back to my borrowed apartment that way, just so I can check it out.
The lobby is huge, much bigger than I’d expected looking from the outside. It’s all dark wood and red thick-pile carpet. A dramatic arrangement of exotic purple flowers fills a circular mahogany table, and three receptionists in black suits stand behind the dark, built-in desks to the right.
I don’t want to ask any of the staff where the bar is just in case they recognize me tomorrow. It might look like I’m spying on them. Instead, I follow two middle-aged women with very expensive handbags. Luckily, we’re all headed for cocktails.
The bar continues the dark theme, accented with gold and bronze. There are plenty of clandestine corners for elicit affairs and a semicircular bar that looks like it’s floating in the middle of the room. It’s moody and sexy and I’m here for it. I’ll probably be here cleaning it tomorrow, but for now, I’m a customer.
I slide onto one of the barstools and a barman immediately hands me a cocktail menu. Before I can wonder how the hell I’m going to read it in such a dimly lit space, he produces a torch and shines it so I can choose what I want to drink. Is it me, or is it a little awkward having him just stand there while I decide? “Can I hold the torch?” I ask.
There’s a subtle rumbling sound that makes the bar vibrate, and I wonder if we’re situated over a tube… er, metro… no, subway station. If I didn’t know we were in New York and not California, I’d think we were experiencing a small earthquake.
A tall man in a navy suit slides onto the barstool next to me on the right and the rumbling stops.
Was it him? Was he making the sound?
“Of course,” the barman says, handing me the torch and distracting me from my thoughts.
The cocktails look, well, delicious. I’d quite happily take any of them. “What do you recommend?” I ask the barman, just as he sets down a drink in front of the man who seemed to make the bar quake.
How did he get served so quickly? He must be a regular. I’ve never done any bartending before. I hope Gretel doesn’t expect me to come with any kind of useful skill set. Gretel is the hotel manager and friend of my soon-to-be brother-in-law’s brother. Does that make him my brother-in-law? Like, do I inherit six brothers-in-law or do I only get the brother who’s marrying my sister? I make a mental note to Google it when I get back to my apartment. Tapping my phone in this bar right now would light the place up like a Christmas tree and I’m trying to go unnoticed.
“Do you prefer vodka-based cocktails or gin?” he asks.
“I like vodka. I like gin.” Sounds like the beginning of a subversive children’s nursery rhyme that I’ll teach my niece, Guinevere, as soon as she can talk.
“I suggest Vagabond Shoes,” he says.
I scan the ingredients and don’t find anything I don’t like. Although, unless they were serving a cocktail with broccoli in it, it’s unlikely I’d find anything that would put me off. “Sounds good.”