Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
For a second, she looks around like she’s considering it before her eyes meet mine again, her lips open, and—
“No.”
Damn her.
She’s determined to make this more difficult than it needs to be.
Apparently, I’ll have to work my ass off to win Princess One Star over.
“Think harder. There must be something,” I urge.
She raises a hand and taps her fingers on her face like she’s pretending to think.
“Hmm. Nope. Sorry, but there’s no chance this doesn’t go in the review,” she says, holding up a finger. “But, since you’re groveling so nicely, you still have a chance to decide what else makes it into that review.”
“I don’t grovel,” I snap. “This wasn’t intentional, you know. As I said, there was a system error and—”
“Winthrope is a multibillion-dollar brand, isn’t it?” She raises her voice. “If the computer system can’t handle basic reservations that budget chains manage without this kind of epic fail, then maybe you should invest in better software.”
She sighs, bringing her hands up and pushing each one away from her like she wishes she could shove this whole incident aside.
For my sake and the resort’s, I hope to hell she can.
I’ve taken too much negative heat online lately.
If shit like this nightmare happens regularly, I can see why. But I have a hard time believing it does.
My staff is competent.
Mostly.
Our systems are top notch, even if the code occasionally breaks and turns into overcooked spaghetti.
“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” She sighs, rubbing her ankle. “You’re just a hotel manager, so—I shouldn’t take it all out on you.”
My jaw clenches.
I’m anything but a simple manager, but nothing good can come from telling her the truth.
“I’m sure no one from the main company consults you on software purchases,” she continues. “But look, I haven’t quite slept off my jet lag yet. It’s been an eventful night, and...I’m not dressed. I appreciate you taking a downgrade so I can keep my room. But I need sleep. So if you really want to help, can you just leave?”
Of course.
I’m such a frigging blockhead.
While I spent half this conversation draped in a towel, I didn’t even consider the fact that she might not be comfortable talking to me in her pajamas. “Sorry. I’ll go, and we’ll figure out a way to salvage your vacation first thing tomorrow. I promise.”
“...that won’t be necessary.”
I hope she’s right, but I can’t let this slide.
If there’s some way to wow her, to outshine my buffalo dick move, it could even do wonders for our online credibility. As I grab my bag and exit, I think back to my grandfather’s advice.
Never let a good crisis go to waste.
Once I’m set up in my new room, I pull out my laptop and start furiously Googling Piper Renee.
Please be some wanna-be web star with seventy-six followers who are mostly friends and relatives.
That would be a huge save right now, but even before the page populates, I know it won’t be true.
No one comps the top suite for a chick with a handful of followers.
The first hits are her socials.
Instagram photos and Reels with millions of views in some cases.
I swallow, hating how fucking dry my throat feels.
Then there’s TikTok. She has over five hundred videos there over the past two years, most with decent reach and a few big breakouts. Her followers are in the low six figures.
“Damn,” I mutter.
The most annoying woman alive isn’t exactly a celebrity, but her network is wide enough to deliver a serious kick in the balls if she torches Winthrope.
And her content runs the gambit, ranging from old-school reviews to showing off pretty scenery and a few where she’s just goofing around.
Most of her videos are focused on US travel. It looks like the Pacific Northwest is her favorite stomping ground.
Also, birds. Lots of them. I’ve never seen anyone waste so much time in a pretty place filming some feathered dinosaur-knockoffs pecking at rotting trees or tapping at bugs in the grass.
Still, I can’t help watching her run along a sunny Oregon beach in a silky green sundress, the wind pulling it around her frame, all lethal curves and a peach of an ass any man would love to sink his teeth into.
Especially this dumbass flicking intently through her content.
Over forty videos in, I look down and realize I’m hard as a nail.
“Idiot,” I mutter.
I know how insane this is.
Getting hard for her feels like getting hot for a hissing cobra.
Also, there’s no rhyme or reason to some of her stuff, or maybe it’s just my age talking.
A glamping shack in Idaho got a rave review and lots of shout-outs in other videos while a luxury resort in Colorado got two lukewarm stars.
What the hell?
Even worse, a quick look at the most popular people leaving comments tells me she’s connected. There are other travel junkies with a significant footprint, followers soaring into the millions combined.