“How many guests are scheduled to check out today?” I ask, looking through the ledger. “We had four rooms sold last night, right?”
“That’s right. Besides the two that done left, we’ve had one request late check-out and one say they’re gonna stay another night.”
“Oh, okay. That’s great.” With it being close to the weekend, I’m hopeful we’ll have even more rooms booked tonight.
“Yes, the lady who extended her stay said the hotel was very lovely, even though it’s lacking in character.” My eyes light up at his words only to come crashing back down along with my shoulders as he finishes his statement.
Character? I feel like the Blue Bayou has tons of character. I mean, if you looked in the dictionary under character, a picture of the hotel should be there. If we don’t have character, what do we have? This place used to be the bee’s knees, to quote my grandmother, and was always packed with guests.
While other kids my age were off at the pool or zoo or having sleepovers, I was here meeting people from all over the world. I adored this place. I still do, I just have to somehow help it get its mojo back.
And to be fair, business isn’t always this dreadful. We have our busy seasons and our slow seasons, like any business in the tourist industry, but this particular season seems to be slower than a herd of turtles and it has me nervous. Summer is just around the corner, though, and I’m hopeful it’ll be a great one for us.
The Blue Bayou is located just outside the French Quarter, sandwiched between Jackson Square and Bourbon Street, which is where most tourists want to visit. You’d think we’d be sold out most nights, but we’re not. Before I inherited the hotel, it seemed like we were always filled to the gills with businessmen, as well as families on vacation. Now, we only seem to get late-night stragglers who’ve partied too hard to remember where they’re staying, or those who wait too long to book elsewhere and have no choice but to stay here. We still have some of our regulars, but most of them are older and we only see them once or twice a year.
In days gone by, word-of-mouth was enough, but nowadays, you need a presence on the internet and paid advertisements. I know all of that but having the time and money to do it is another question.
I wish I could figure out how to get more customers, especially returning customers. I’ve thought about hiring a marketing firm, but I can’t afford it right now. But without good marketing, I might never get this place filled back up.
It’s a catch-22 if I’ve ever seen one, and a vicious cycle that keeps me up at night.
As the afternoon drifts on, my eyes begin to cross from looking at my computer screen for so long. The tech guy who came over to help only wanted to sell me a new computer, which I can’t afford. I finally convinced him to fix the damn thing enough for us to get by, but we’re still not able to run credit card payments, so it looks like I’ll be putting in another call soon.
“How about I open the front door for a little bit and let some fresh air in?” Mary asks, already heading toward the door. She opens one side of the double door and a smile instantly spreads across my face.
There’s a nice breeze blowing in, bringing with it the smell of Cajun food and the sounds of jazz music from down the street. It’s faint, but it’s just enough to soothe my mind and remind me how much I love my city.
“Watch out for Rusty,” I warn Mary. “He’s been trying to sneak in lately.”
Technically, Rusty is a dog; however, he looks more like a long-haired baby goat, with about as much grace as one too. He’s a sweet little thing, but I’m always afraid he’s going to destroy this place.
“Did you tell Floyd he escaped?”
“I did, but I can call him again,” I tell her. Floyd runs one of the horse-carriage tours around the Quarter, and when he works, he leaves Rusty at home, which is around the corner from here. No one can figure out how he escapes, but he does. Frequently.
Mary sticks her head out the door, looking for Rusty, I presume. When she’s back inside, she has a sneaky smile on her face. “Oh, let me handle it. There’s a cute young man walking down the sidewalk and I think he just might need a room.”
I roll my eyes at her as I walk over to refill the pitchers of water on the side table. Cute young men are a dime a dozen in New Orleans, but without a gym or pool or bar, not many want to stay here, so I don’t get my hopes up.
Still, I wouldn’t mind catching a glimpse of whomever it is that turned Mary’s head. I may be too busy to even think about dating, but I’m certainly not dead.
Peeking out the glass of the door that’s closed, I nearly swallow my tongue when I see him.
Faded, slightly tattered jeans.
A well-worn t-shirt that’s snug over his shoulders and biceps.
He’s carrying a leather duffle bag that makes his arms flex as he continues down the sidewalk. The closer he gets, the more his features come into view.
Dark, messy hair.
Light stubble covering his well-defined jaw and chin.
Speaking of chins, I need to wipe the drool off mine and get back to work. He’s a dreamboat, for sure, but Mr. Dreamboat is not going to help me get this hotel back in its groove. Although, he could get me back into mine, I bet. Just call me Stella.
I step away from the door and laugh at myself as I walk back to the table, straightening the water glasses on display. The sound of the bell jingling above the door catches me by surprise, but not as much as Mr. Dreamboat does when he walks inside. I’m so caught off guard by his presence, not to mention his blinding, white smile, I don’t even notice Rusty rushing in behind him until it’s too late.
“Rusty, no!” Trying to control the crazy dog does me no good. In fact, I only seem to excite him more, which causes him to run and jump on me, knocking me off-balance and into the table. When I fall to the floor, it’s like I’m in the Matrix and everything happens in slow-motion. Thankfully, somehow, my typically clumsy self manages to catch the glass pitcher before it crashes to the floor beside me, but now I’m completely drenched.
Rusty runs back outside, leaving me alone with Mr. Dreamboat.
Chapter 3
Maverick
Wet.
I don’t know who this woman is, but she’s gorgeous. And wet. Soaking wet.
Did I forget to mention she’s wet?
It takes me longer than I’d like to admit, to help her up. Eventually, the manners I was raised with finally click into place and I rush to the lady on the ground, offering to help her up. When I stick my hand out for her to grab, she just stares at it like she doesn’t know what it is.
Did she hit her head? Maybe she has a concussion. I’m really out of my element here but I can’t leave her lying on the floor.
“Ma’am, are you okay? Take my hand and I’ll help you up.”
Something about my words must grab her attention because she finally makes eye contact with me, setting the empty pitcher on the ground beside her. Now I’m the one stunned, because fuck me if she doesn’t have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. I can’t tell if they’re blue or green or some color that hasn’t been discovered yet, but they’re incredible.
I watch as she tilts her head to the side like she’s trying to figure me out, her eyes blinking a few times before going wide. I assume she thinks I’m about to harm her in some way, or maybe she thinks I’m the one who knocked her down instead of that dog. Suddenly, she takes in a large gulp of air bringing my attention back to her wet shirt, and I’ll admit, her fantastic rack, and I brace myself for her scream. I mean, I don’t blame the woman. Here I am, a stranger, standing over her, ogling her tits with my hand stretched out like I’m going to grab her. It’s time for some fast talking.