Page 3 of Secret Offer
“This isn’t for the Tisdales,” Beck says, addressing me. “I need you to fly out early to train the new concierge. You’ll need at least a week to show her the ropes. She’s…unqualified, frankly.”
“And you hired her why, exactly?” I say, annoyance tinging my voice.
“Her brother and I go way back,” Beck says. “I’m doing him a solid. Plus, she’s hot. I’m sure she’ll be quite popular with the guests.”
“Right. I’ll handle it, then,” I say, and the only reason I don’t fight him on it like I want to is because I’m still chewing on the phrase ‘go way back,’ and thinking about how I can pump this new concierge for whatever info she has about her brother and Becker’s past. Skeletons, I’m coming for you.
“Good,” Becker says. “We’re done here, then.”
As if on cue, the lights dim, and a spotlight hits the baby grand on the corner stage. A woman with a swoop of dark hair over one eye and deep red lips begins to play an intro, something soulful and vaguely familiar, and it doesn’t take long before I recognize the melody. It’s a pop song from a few years ago, with gut wrenching lyrics that I know will be stuck in my head all night.
“They say that time’s supposed to heal you…”
Nope. Not doing this. Time to go.
I push back from the table and get to my feet. Tossing back what’s left of my drink, I give the others a nod.
“It’s been a long day. I need to get home and pack,” I say.
I can feel my heart pounding in my chest as I make my way out the door.
Maybe heading to the island a week early is exactly what I need.
1
BLAIR
“So what doyou think our chances are at getting dibs on any of the college players from Florida State? Specifically Ty Jamieson, but honestly I’d even be happy with?—”
“Ugh, Blair, must we?” Brooke peels a cucumber slice from one eye so she can squint a half-glare at me from the adjacent massage table.
“Must we what?” I ask my BFF innocently.
“Must we sit here and discuss boring business crap when we’re on this luxurious vacation?”
I sit up like a shot, my seaweed body wrap rustling. “It’s not business crap, it’s the MLB Draft! This is our team’s big chance to level up the roster. I’d hardly call that boring.”
Though I’ve followed the draft every year since I was a kid, this will be the first time I’ll have a chance to actively contribute to the club’s wish list of potential rookies. I’ve been watching the up and comers all season, checking stats daily, following them on social media to learn their personalities as well as their professional abilities. While the team’s general manager has the final say on all our picks, the head coach and the owner carry a lot of weight as well, and I’m sure Dad will listen to what I have to say.
“It’s still work-related. Don’t pretend you’re mulling picks purely because you love the game.”
“Idolove the game,” I point out. “And who wouldn’t be excited about Jamieson? His fastballs clock in at over ninety miles an hour, and his sliders?—”
“Tell me what his butt looks like in baseball pants, and then we can talk,” Brooke interrupts, popping the cucumber in her mouth and crunching on it.
“Okay, you want to talk baseball pants, I am all about the shortstop from ASU, because damn.”
She laughs. “But seriously. Your familyownsthe New York Rockets. You’re not excited about the team’s potential new players, you’re excited about the team’s potential new dollar signs.”
Laughing, I insist, “I can be excited about both! Besides, you know I’m not trying to look like some entitled nepo baby walking into this job without any real knowledge or passion for the game. My family’s not that kind of team owner. And how lucky am I to be starting a career that’s such a perfect mix of business and pleasure? Of course I can’t stop yapping about it.”
“I get that,” she says, “but you’re gonna have all the time in the world to talk at me about baseball stuff once you’re working for your dad. For now, let’s just enjoy our last summer of freedom before we’re forced to put our shiny new business degrees to use. Look around you, boo. We. Are. In. Paradise.”
Technically, we’re in the resort’s fancy spa, so there’s not much to look around at besides the bamboo paneled walls of our private treatment room and the ceramic diffusers pumping lemongrass-scented mist into the air. But Brooke’s right. We’ve been here for three days now, riding the high of our graduation from NYU Stern, and I haven’t once stopped thinking about my future role with the franchise.
Not that I’m entirely certain what that role is going to be just yet. I still need to sit down with my father and hammer out the details. But even if I’m not sureexactlywhich department I’ll get placed in, working to support the Rockets has been my dream for as long as I can remember, so no matter where I end up, whether it’s operations or legal or public relations, I intend to shine. I’ve got to start somewhere if I’m going to work my way up and eventually take over as team owner whenever my dad retires.
“Why don’t we get out of this seaweed and see about those mani-pedis you mentioned earlier?” I say, grabbing the cucumber off Brooke’s other eye and taking a bite. “Then we can figure out what we’re doing for lunch. Appetizers and daiquiris at the pool bar? Maybe grab something to go from one of the hotel restaurants and picnic on the beach? Or we could try someplace new in town; I heard there’s a Japanese place that has sushi boats.”
