by Eliza Watson
I had a haunting feeling Sadie Collentine would be sharing dark family secrets rather than family recipes.
Chapter Three
The following morning, I went down to the second floor to cross over to the elevators in our office wing. Declan had once taught me this trick to avoid the lobby and attendees’ difficult questions. This trip, it was more to admire my favorite Christmas tree decorated with champagne-colored bows, gold ornaments, and a gold glittery tree skirt with…red tennies sticking out from underneath it.
What the hell?
Loud snoring and the stench of eau de whiskey filled the air. I peeked around the back of the tree to find familiar dark hair gelled into a wild frenzy, the guy’s head weighing heavily on a gold-wrapped box. Omigod.
Curt. One of our attendees.
I certainly wouldn’t be snapping a picture of this scene.
Thankfully, it was early and the executive office floor was deserted. Rachel would be livid if this idiot got kicked out of Brecker’s and Flanagan’s preferred Dublin hotel. She’d be the one explaining it to the companies’ CEOs and our hotel contact. I refused to call Declan, or Rachel, for help.
I could handle this.
I gave Curt’s tennie a kick. A faint groan filled the air along with an even stronger smell of whiskey. I kicked his foot harder.
He grunted and tugged the tree skirt up to his chin, nestling into it. “Knock it off, Derik.” His voice was raspy from cigarettes and booze.
“It’s not Derik,” I hissed. “Get up. Now.” I gave him a kick to the shin this time.
He let out a yelp.
I yanked the tree skirt off him, but he snagged a corner and pulled it back over himself.
“Seriously, dude, knock it off.”
“If you do not get up right now, I’m putting you on the next plane home at your own expense. And no more Jameson.”
He squinted up at me. “You’re not Derik.”
“No kidding. But I am dead serious.”
He rolled out from under the tree, wrapping the red skirt around his shoulders and his red Brecker T-shirt. I’d given Derik and him a half dozen extra shirts thinking it would be great promo for them to wear to the pubs.
Now, I wasn’t so sure.
He managed to drag himself up, rocking back on his heels. I grabbed hold of his arm, steadying him, before he and the tree went timber.
He peered at the skirt wrapped around his shoulders. “Hey, I’m a superhero. Super Curt.”
I grabbed the “cape” and put it back in place under the tree. I hid the crushed present in the corner behind.
“Do you have your room key?”
He nodded, wearing a suggestive smirk. “You wanna go back to my room?” He continued nodding. “Awesome.” He checked his jeans pockets, coming up empty except for a euro, a few peanuts, and the label from a beer bottle. “Looks like we have to go to your room.”
I rolled my eyes.
He’d blown away too many brain cells on this trip to even recall his room number, so I found it on the list in my binder. We waited for the elevator, Curt leaning an annoying arm against my shoulder. The elevator doors opened, and a group of hotel executives, dressed in black, exited. I recognized several from our hotel pre-con meeting, including the general manager. He held the door for us, unable to hide his curious stare, his top lip curling back from Curt’s stench.
He smiled. “Having a good stay in Dublin?”
Curt was sniffing my hair.
I nodded earnestly. “Incredible. Everyone is raving about your hotel.”
Curt drew his nose back from my head and slipped his arm around my shoulder. “Awesome hotel, dude. Can’t wait to come back. You should give my chick a raise.”
The doors slid shut on the manager’s confused gaze.
We’d almost been home free.
“I don’t work for the hotel, you idiot, and we’re not dating.” Fuming, I threw Curt’s arm off my shoulder, and he stumbled back against the wall.
The door opened, and I grasped his elbow, propelling him off the elevator. I knocked on his guest room door. No answer. After pounding several times, Derik finally appeared, naked except for a pair of boxers with a frothy-topped pint of beer printed on them. I shoved Curt into the room and left them with a stern warning they would immediately forget.
I headed back toward the elevator, sniffing myself, deciding I reeked like a booze hag. I went to my room and exchanged my Brecker red-logoed white cotton shirt for an identical one hanging on the bathroom door. Hating to iron, I relied on the shower steam to remove the wrinkles. I threw on my black suit jacket and brushed on more Flirty Fuchsia lip gloss to brighten my boring outfit. I blasted my hair with hairspray to fumigate any lingering smell of Curt’s whiskey breath.
I was almost a half hour late. Now avoiding the hotel offices on the second floor, I took the elevator down to the lobby. Bernice and Gracie strolled in the front entrance, wearing yesterday’s clothes.
“What happens in Ireland, stays in Ireland.” Bernice winked as they scurried over to catch the elevator.
Since we were still in Ireland, I was definitely telling Rachel about their contest-forum hookup. She’d need a laugh before I told her about Curt.
Maybe this program wasn’t a no-brainer. It just required different skills than the three corporate meetings I’d worked. I was proud I’d handled Curt on my own without having to call Declan to help me haul his drunken ass up to his room.
I entered our staff office. The same one we’d had for our October meeting. Working at a familiar hotel provided a sense of stability in our unpredictable event-planning world. You knew the layout, the staff’s service level, if the minibars had sensors… A discovery I’d made at a Paris hotel when I’d been billed for a dozen diet sodas I’d never drank.
Rachel’s plum-colored lips clashed with her red dress and nails. No jewelry accessorized her outfit. A major fashion faux pas for her. Rather than flat-ironing her wavy brown hair, the sides were pulled back in a clip. She never wore her hair back for work. I did all the time, preferring to sleep than to fuss with my hairstyle. At the rate her nails were flying across the keyboard, she’d already downed several energy drinks.
She gazed up from her computer, smiling despite her disheveled appearance.
I told her about the sisters.
She laughed. “That could be us in forty years.”
That was more scary than it was funny. I feared we might end up spinsters, not widows.
I explained my tardiness was thanks to Curt.
“Glad you found the idiot.” She polished off an energy drink and tossed the can in the garbage. “If these guys end up in the emergency room from alcohol poisoning, they’re on their own.”
An empty threat since she knew we’d be dealing with it.
She was taking the incident much more calmly than I’d expected, especially since she was wired on energy drinks. She obviously had a lot going on, so I decided not to mention that Curt and I had run into the hotel’s executive staff, even though Rachel was adamant about being in the loop on everything.
“I just learned that Flanagan’s and Brecker are doing a St. Paddy’s Day distributer promo. The prize is a trip to Dublin for their busiest day of the year. I need your help finding a hotel. They’re sold out here, like everywhere else, I’m sure. There’ll only be ten winners plus guests. I might have you work it.”
“Awesome. We can see the Liffey dyed green.”
“You’d be working it alone.”
Rachel had faith in me to work a meeting abroad by myself?
We’d come a long way since my first meeting in Dublin when she’d only trusted me to dress like a sausage and direct people to the bathroom. I’d managed a meeting alone at Brecker headquarters in Milwaukee, but this would entail working at a hotel four thousand miles away with nobody to fall back on for help. I’d flown solo one day in Paris covering for a planner with food poisoning and Declan, who’d gone MIA. Yet I couldn’t decide whether t
o do a happy dance or throw up.
“If you aren’t comfortable working it, I can ask Gretchen.”
Gretchen, also a contractor, was Rachel’s golden child and a royal bitch. Even worse, she’d slept with Declan.
“I’ll do it.”
“Perfect. I also have to organize a Flanagan’s meeting since they don’t have a planner and the president thought I did a brilliant job on the October integration meeting here. As if I have time to plan their programs.” A contented look spread across her face, usually marred with stress lines creasing her forehead and a vein pulsating in the middle of it.
What was up?
“After New Year’s, you could come into the office a few days a week to help out.”
“That’d be great.”
“I’ll have you start on the St. Paddy’s Day program later this morning.”
“Perfect. I’ll be at the desk when you’re ready.” I headed toward the door.
“Oh, and I slept with Gerry Coffey.”
I spun around, wide-eyed. “What?”
She relaxed back in her chair with a dreamy expression, peering out the gold-draped windows at the misty view of a weathered brick building across the alley. “Last night when I left you guys at the market, I went to check out the pub’s private room for future events.” Her gaze darted to me. “You know we’re not related to him. Just share an ancestor’s surname.”
“Yeah, I know.”
My shocked expression wasn’t over her having sex with a possible Coffey family member ten times removed. Rachel didn’t do one-night stands. And she hadn’t had a steady boyfriend since Simon dumped her four years ago when she’d called him bitching about her job while he celebrated his birthday alone at a restaurant.
I headed toward her, lowering my voice. “You did it in their private dining room?”
“No, at his place. He got someone to cover for him. I just got back an hour ago.” She popped the top on another energy drink. “He’s so witty, and cute, and…” She sighed. “That Irish accent…”
She recounted the hot and steamy details of them having sex in every room of Gerry’s five-room town house. I shot an occasional nervous glance over my shoulder, making sure no attendees were walking in on us. Rachel didn’t appear concerned, off in Gerry-land.
I left the office in a sweat over Rachel’s sexcapades and keeping my relationship with Declan a secret from her. She’d just placed all of this trust in me to work a meeting alone and confided in me about Gerry Coffey, and I hadn’t returned the trust. I planned to tell her about Declan and me at the end of this trip after we proved we could maintain a professional relationship. If she knew about us, she’d be on the lookout for signs of inappropriate behavior.
Yet not confiding in her wasn’t exactly appropriate behavior for a sister, and a friend.
* * *
Our group’s only planned event was a three-hour breakfast daily in the hotel’s pub, which opened to the public at noon. A time for winners to share their Dublin experiences and for us to make sure everyone was alive and not incarcerated. Like Curt and Derik. I sat outside the pub at our hospitality desk—draped in a red Brecker-logoed linen—typing on my laptop. Declan strolled out from working breakfast, looking insanely hot in his black suit and white buttoned shirt. Knowing that his oxford was a wrinkled mess except for the ironed front made me smile.
We shared a loathing for ironing.
Declan flashed me a sexy little smile, then peered past me at Finn O’Brien heading toward us, dressed in a navy wool jacket and blue-and-tan plaid scarf.
“Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it now?” Declan said.
“Omigod,” I muttered. “Bernice and Gracie must have mentioned our hotel when they bought wine at his food stand.”
I popped up from my chair. The chef smiled at me and nodded hello to Declan. Declan returned his nod, not his smile.
“Thought I’d stop in to firm up tonight. I also wanted to show you this.” He laid that morning’s newspaper on the table, a spread on last night’s Christmas market.
My teeth clamped down on my lower lip, gaze narrowed on a pic of Finn kissing my hand. I looked surprised and like a total dork in that Santa stocking cap.
“Jaysus,” Declan muttered, peering over my shoulder.
“Sorry.” Finn shrugged with embarrassment. “My mom organizes the charity auction.”
Panic zipped through me. “Will she be there tonight with a photographer?” I didn’t want photographic evidence of me setting his restaurant’s kitchen on fire.
Finn laughed. “No worries. She has other obligations tonight. You have my card with the address. Call in about four. I also wanted to make sure you don’t have any allergies or dietary restrictions.”
I’d never eaten goose, but I wasn’t allergic to other poultry. I shook my head.
Bernice and Gracie walked toward us, wearing clean clothes and big smiles. Brightly patterned leggings broke up the monotony of Gracie’s turquoise top and tennies. Bernice had on a purple velour jogging suit and pink tennies.
“Well, hello there. Here to cook Caity breakfast?” Bernice wiggled her brows suggestively.
As if Finn and I had spent the night together.
A low growl vibrated at the back of Declan’s throat.
Finn flashed the women his signature smile. “No, just firming up details for tonight.”
“Can we come watch and pick up some cooking tips?” Gracie asked.
Declan arched a curious brow. “Yes, can we?”
Finn shrugged. “Sure. The more the merrier.”
Gracie gave him a playful swat. “The merrier. Aren’t you just in the holiday spirit?”
“Don’t worry—you can still dine at a table for two.” Bernice gave me a wink.
Declan managed a strained smile.
Finn gestured to our table linen. “Work for Brecker, do ya?”
“I’m a contractor. My sister, Rachel, works for them.”
“I was wondering about your beer garments last night. Thought it was a giveaway at the market.”
“Just to this trip’s winners. But I have extras.” I fished a Brecker scarf out from the box under the table and handed it to him.
He probably wore Hugo Boss, but he gave me a gracious smile. “Thanks. See you tonight.” He headed toward the lobby, stopping to chat with Rachel.
A sense of relief washed over me. Finn knowing I worked with Brecker would make a conversation about his restaurants carrying the beer easier. One less thing to worry about tonight. The relief was fleeting since I had plenty of other things to agonize over.
“Feckin’ wanker,” Declan muttered, marching into breakfast.
Bernice and Gracie were admiring Finn’s butt from afar.
Nice. But not nearly as good as Declan’s in a pair of jeans.
“Declan mentioned that you traced your Irish ancestry,” Bernice said. “We’re wondering if you might be able to help us trace our McKinneys in Scotland. Would be nice to have someone to visit when we go there next year.”
“I’ve only done a bit of research in Ireland. My trial Ancestry.com subscription expired.”
“We’d compensate you of course. And could help you win a TV, iPad, lifetime supply of fish food, all kinds of stuff.”
“How about a car?” My red sports car had been repoed two months ago, and I was still driving my uncle’s truck that reeked like wet dog, tobacco, and manure.
“If not a car, at least enough stuff you could sell to buy one,” Bernice said.
I smiled. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Great,” Gracie said. “We better go eat. Need some strong tea. Was a long night.”
Rachel approached. I snatched the newspaper off the table, unsure how she’d feel about my picture.
She gestured to the paper. “I already saw it online. Got a call from Flanagan’s CEO, who recognized you from the October meeting. He’s ecstatic you were wearing Flanagan’s and Brecker’s logos while blocking the Guinness banner.
”
“I was thinking, you should do this thing tonight,” I said. “You’re the one with all the copper pots and pans hanging over a huge island in your kitchen.”
“Because I’d like to cook someday when I have time. You’re the one in the photo, who tied Flanagan’s name to this event. You can’t back out. It’s a great opportunity for you to get in good with them since you’re helping me plan their meeting. And Tom Reynolds is going to be thrilled.”
So if I didn’t do this, both CEOs would be ticked, and Rachel would take me off planning Flanagan’s meeting and spending St. Paddy’s Day in Dublin?
“If you secure O’Brien’s business, we’ll both get a bonus.”
Hmm… That made the possibility of torching Finn’s kitchen a little more bearable.
Rachel looked baffled. “Why are you so against doing dinner with a hot Irish guy?”
“I’m not. I’ll do it.”
Rachel had been sympathetic about Andy and hadn’t said I told you so, but she’d definitely say she’d warned me about Declan.
It would only be a warning if things with Declan turned out badly. Did I expect them to?
Rachel headed back to the office.
I plucked the memory card from the company’s camera and stuck it in my laptop. I’d taken over a thousand shots to make sure I had at least a couple hundred good ones. I needed an enlarged view to weed out the bad ones. No icon popped up on the screen, asking if I wanted to download new pictures. I reinserted the card. The computer recognized the memory card but still no pics. Had none of the photos saved to the card? I stuck the card in the camera. Nothing. They were just there yesterday. Was it a bad card?
Omigod. I’d lost five days of attendee shots.
Rachel would freak.
My photographer position was my biggest responsibility this program. Rachel would lose faith in my abilities to work a meeting alone. Thankfully, she’d only reviewed the pictures from the welcome reception. The ones that would be the most difficult to reshoot!
