Chapter 1
Jonathan
I’m nervous. As I move through my casino, I stop to breathe into my hand and take a quick smell.
It doesn’t smell like anything other than my clean hand. Does this really work to tell if your breath is bad? I don’t know. But I need to figure it out before Maggie gets here.
I’ve been in love with Maggie Reinhardt since we were teenagers, and she called out of the blue to tell me she’s flying in and wants to see me.
She was here a few months ago during the pre-opening for the Shangri-la, my casino resort on the Las Vegas strip, when her brother’s venture capital firm held a corporate meeting here, and he and his fiancée eloped. We reconnected, fell into bed, and it was amazing. It was everything I’ve ever dreamed of. We’ve traded emails and texts and phone calls since then, and I’ve been asking her to come back. But she’s busy with work, and then her dad passed away last month. I went home to Minneapolis for the funeral, but the family was surrounded, and I was buried in the Shangri-la’s official opening back here, so I didn’t stay long, and Maggie and I didn’t really connect.
Her father was an icon. He inherited a high-end department store called Reinhardt Hudson when Maggie and her brother were young, and over time he added what became the second-largest discount retailer, Bullseye, and a mid-level department store called Murphy’s to the company fold. He was a real pioneer in the retail world. But as I understand it, neither of his sons wants to take over as chairman of the board now that he’s gone.
One of those sons, Maggie’s brother Christopher, is my best friend. He’s held that title since we were in diapers. He told me a while back that when their father was gone, they’d find someone to run the day-to-day operations at the company, so he or Stevie would probably just chair the board in name only. Maggie manages the Reinhardt Foundation, but I’m hoping she won’t be tied to living in Minneapolis forever.
When she gets here, I’m going to make my move. I’m going to ask her to move to Vegas, and we’ll start making plans to get married. That’s all there is to it.
I’ve loved her for most of my life, and I created the Shangri-la for her.
This is a good plan, I tell myself as I move through the casino. I love the musical sound the slot machines make. I even have a section of my hotel with old-time slots that actually use coins. They say they aren’t as profitable as today’s machines, but everyone loves the musical beat of coins hitting the tray as the machine spits out winnings.
My hotel is not yet a year old, and already we’re working in the black. I love this town.
Anyway, I never take time off, but while Maggie is here, it will be essential. Shortly after I arrive at the staff meeting this morning, which is held over breakfast, I drop the bomb.
“Listen,” I tell them. “I’m thinking of taking a few days off this week.”
My team consists of my head of marketing, head of sales, the head of the casino, the head of guest relations, the head of guest rooms, the head of security, the head of housekeeping, and the head of maintenance. These people are essential to my operation and have been with me since I started with my concept. They all stop mid-bite and look at me. I’m expecting some push back.
“It’s your hotel,” says Gillian Reece, my head of guest relations and right-hand woman. “You don’t have to run anything by us.”
I nod, a bit surprised. “Good. I have a friend coming into town, and I want to spend some time with her.”
“Uh-oh…” my head of casino teases. “It’s a her? May your dry spell be broken.”
I smile. I’m not going to dignify that with a response.
Maggie and I haven’t said we’re exclusive, and when you own a large resort that’s the newest shiny object for tourists to visit, you don’t have a lot of time to date. If I have an occasion that requires someone on my arm, it’s only a friend.
Our staff discussion quickly dissolves into lots of ribbing and teasing. I don’t mind. I like that we’re close.
When our meeting breaks up, Gillian approaches me. “We’ll make sure her stay is perfect.”
I know what she’s after. She will spoil Maggie to death, but that’s my job. “I’m not telling you her name so you don’t pester her in any way.”
“Moi? Pester her?” Her smile stretches like the Hoover Dam. “I would never think of doing that.”
I shake my head to make sure she knows. “Really, it’s not a big deal. This is a friend I grew up with, and she’s my best friend’s baby sister. It’s been three years since I’ve had a day off. Just a couple days,” I stress. “I want to hang out with someone who remembers what I looked like as a pimple-faced, awkward teenager.”
She harrumphs. “Somehow I doubt you were ever an awkward teenager.”
I was, but I’m not going to debate that with her. To ensure the Shangri-la’s success, I expel a lot of energy and stress at the gym, so I’m in pretty decent shape.
As I head off down the hall, I begin to remember how perfect Maggie was beneath me, on top of me, and in front of me, and how delicious she tasted. No, I have every intention of enjoying every second and ordering room service for however long her stay might be.
I’m meeting her in less than an hour. She didn’t give me much notice, but I was able to sneak in a quick trip to my favorite esthetician for a facial, and I don’t want to be too vain, but I also did some primping with a fresh haircut and a manzilian wax. It hurt like a motherfucker, but it’s clean and tidy and makes me super sensitive. I’m ready for a lot of up-close-and-personal time. I want Maggie to know I’m going to spend the rest of my life making her happy.
I’m used to walking the property multiple times a day, so I decide to do a quick pass through as I return to my apartment to meet Maggie. I live onsite and made sure the home I set up faced the mountains—away from the strip—and my offices were in a tower across the property, so I’d have to wander through to get to work. I try not to be too predictable and walk through at the same time or take the same path, so I see everything going on at my resort.
As I stroll along today, the employees I encounter have looks of pure terror on their faces. If they had cartoon bubbles above their heads, they’d read, Don’t talk to me. I don’t know why they’re nervous. I never call anyone out specifically. I make a mental note to bring it up with my team and have them address it, if it’s worth it.
“Hello, Mr. Best.”
Ah! Here’s one willing to speak to me. I discreetly glance at her name tag. “Hello, Janice. How are the tables running?”
“Very well, sir. We’ve had a table of frat boys that’s run hot and cold all night. It may break up now that it’s daylight.”
I chuckle. “That’s very good news.” I staff beautiful cocktail waitresses, and my pit boss probably put one of our most stunning dealers—who happens to be married to him—on the table to keep the boys in place and spending money.
My casino manager approaches me. “Hey, boss.”
“Hi. Sounds like it was a good night last night?”
“Yes, it was. Spring break will do that.”