Cupid’s Couple had provided the perfect way.
Annabelle Simmons, the no-nonsense director of sales, gave a decided shake of her steel-gray curls. “He checked in shortly after three. The last I inquired, she hadn’t arrived yet.”
“The lassie’s here,” Dougray said. “About a quarter hour past. I took her bags to the Tower, but she went sightseeing on the promenade. Saw her peeping in windows just before I came to staff. I don’t think the laddie will stay in his room long, now that he knows she’s here. He seemed twitchy to see her.” Dougray patted the black-encased radio fastened at his waist. “Front desk will call when he comes down or she heads up.”
“Excellent. So we’re prepared to get underway.” Mary cut a glance around the table. “Are we ready?”
A few stoic nods of assent, a muttered “yes,” and one very enthusiastic “as ready as we’ll ever be,” from an excited Laura.
“Have we heard from WTA’s judge yet?” Mary asked.
“He, unfortunately, confirmed an early check-in tomorrow morning.” Annabelle’s possessive scowl compressed her stern features like a balled-up fist.
“Unfortunately?”
“I’d hoped for a woman.” She impatiently rattled papers before her. “They’re much easier to sell on romance.”
Mary had hoped for a woman, too, but didn’t disclose that tidbit. Annabelle was a crack salesperson. Her hardcore pragmatism ensured that guests’ expectations were always enthusiastic and reasonable, but it could also have a sobering effect when the staff needed something to hope for. “Then we’ll just have to work harder to sell him.”
While an air of expectancy lingered over the table, Mary’s staff appeared determined, and she felt certain her casual acceptance of their new judge had had the desired effect. No last-minute panicking. They’d come this far, and she wouldn’t allow them to trip at the finish line.
“Think of this as the opportunity it is,” Mary said. “We’ve been nominated as the most romantic getaway. This is the toughest industry award and the one carrying the biggest prize. We’ve earned this nomination. I want you all to keep that in mind, when the pressure is on.”
Bruno, the former head chef and current restaurant supervisor, spread his hands in entreaty. “Five other properties have been nominated, too.”
“But we’re the only fully fledged romance superclub,” Laura pointed out, with an enthusiasm Mary suspected was taught as a requirement in college hospitality management courses. “The other nominees are out of their league. They don’t stand a chance, because we’re owned and operated by our staff. We’ve got the edge. We’re motivated. We’re—”
“Desperate,” Dougray said, cutting in.
Bruno issued a heavy sigh. “Yes, desperate.”
“Not desperate.” Mary halted the discussion. Not exactly.
While Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast wasn’t down-and-out, it wasn’t far from it. Winning the prestigious Most Romantic Getaway award during this all-important first year as both a privately owned property and a romance superclub was essential for their continued existence.
The new management company hadn’t thrown in with the employees to buy the 120-year-old property out of the goodness of their hearts. They’d done so to place themselves in a category that increased their credit limit to allow for both the buyout and a multimillion-dollar renovation of the historic property into a superclub.
There was an opportunity for substantial profit with the venture. There was also an opportunity for loss. While the management company could simply reorganize through bankruptcy in that eventuality, the staff would wind up losing everything down to and including the shirts on their backs.
Mary would do everything in her power to keep that from happening, starting with winning the million-dollar multimedia advertising campaign that was part of WTA’s grand prize. The revenue generated by those promotions would effectively carry them all the way through next year’s off-season.
“We have a unique opportunity here,” she said. “We’re off-season, yet we’re close to running at full capacity. This isn’t Florida, so we can’t attribute those reservations to the weather. Our guests must have come to enjoy our amenities, and we’re staffed to handle them. We’re prepared, organized and completely capable of winning this award on our own merit.” She steepled her hands before her and moved her gaze around the table. “And…we’ve got our ace in the hole.”
Cupid’s Couple.
The way Mary saw it, Ms. James and her escort were both successful businesspeople, young enough to be attracted to a superclub, yet old enough to know what to do with the unique services a superclub offered.
A few well-placed phone calls had revealed that this couple also had a long history between them and, as Mary—stepping into her role as Cupid—had summarily decided, a bright future.
Cupid’s Couple didn’t know it yet, but they were about to be struck by one of Cupid’s golden arrows. They would be bombarded with opportunities for romance this weekend, to fall completely in love and decide to get married, all under the guidance of her staff and the watchful gaze of WTA’s judge.
Their path to love would personalize Falling Inn Bed, and Breakfast in a way that would give her property the edge it needed to win the Most Romantic Getaway award.
Or so the plan went.
“What do you say, Dougray?” Laura asked. “Think we can really pull this off?”
Dougray waved his hand in a gesture of dramatic impatience. “With this incredible superclub? With all of us playing matchmakers?” He rolled his gaze toward the ceiling and gave an exasperated snort. “Cupid’s Couple doesn’t stand a chance.” He patted his hip reassuringly. “I’ve got me radio fixed tight to me belt, Ms. J. Front desk will call as soon as Cupid’s Couple steps into the elevator.”
Mary smiled. “Keep your eyes open for any opportunity to encourage romance. Phase one underway.”
“Phase one underway,” the staff chorused, a salutation.
Everyone knew the plan. Phase one would see Cupid’s Couple exposed to every unusual amenity the superclub had to offer and ensure they were given a chance to avail themselves of those amenities fully.
Each member of her staff would handle his or her job competently. Luck would handle the rest.
And it just so happened that Mary had been born on Saint Valentine’s Day, the luckiest day for love. The way she saw it, she had every right to play Cupid.
“MAGGIE!”
Sam’s voice came at her out of nowhere. Getting caught with her nose pressed to the glass wasn’t exactly the way Maggie had hoped to greet Sam, but her disappointment scattered at the sight of him. Of course, she’d expected to see him, but something about him seemed so unexpected, so…changed.
Long-limbed and leanly muscled, he took each stride brisk and sure, smiling easily as he approached. His sooty black hair shone in the glow of the chandelier’s light, the swoop in his bang that would grow into a full-fledged wave if he didn’t keep up with his trims just beginning to show.
He still wore a suit, as if he’d headed straight to the airport from his last consultation and hadn’t yet bothered to change. Though she’d seen him dressed for work practically every day since he graduated college, there was something different about his crisp white collar and butter-soft Italian leather shoes. So different