“Has Jenny London called in?” It occurs to me now that while I was daydreaming in the lobby she could have slipped by, and I need to be prepared in case she’s sitting in my office.

“No, Mr. Bliss.” Sarah makes a show of checking the phones. “But it’s her first day. Something could have tied her up.”

Something could have undressed her.

“I met her in the lobby a few minutes ago. There was an… incident. So she’ll be a few minutes. I wanted to make sure she didn’t beat me back here.”

Sarah’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of an incident, but she doesn’t say anything about it. “I’ll let you know if she calls. Otherwise, I’ll be right here like I always am, ready to greet her.”

“Good. Great.”

I move past the reception desk. Sarah has been working for Bliss since I was a kid, and I don’t think she’ll ever retire. She’s got more wisdom than all of my brothers combined. But she’s wrong about this one. You give people an inch and they take a mile. Of course, we’ll give them several miles if they’re guests or club members... but that’s different.

There’s no sign of Jenny in the bullpen, or in the smaller offices lining the sides of the space, all of it flooded with light from the skylights in the ceiling. We cover them in the winter, and my favorite time of year is when we throw them open in the spring. Nothing can hide in this kind of light.

Part of me is relieved. And a strange, unfamiliar part of me wishes she was already here.

The rest of the office buzzes with its usual activity. I have people here seven days a week, rotating the staff members out so that everyone gets equal time off. There’s never much downtime at a resort, and that’s how I like it. The work keeps my mind off... other things. Like a half-naked Jenny London up on the third floor. It’s the same bright white color scheme as the main lobby, with an enormous glass desk that Sarah wipes down more often than is strictly necessary.

Paperwork. I’ll focus on paperwork. There were a few voicemails to return, too. I settle myself into my chair, tap at the keyboard, and scroll through my emails. A couple reminders pop up—the calls.

I lift the handset of the phone to my ear, but before I can punch in the button to connect to the front desk, there’s a hush in the bullpen. A weird hush. A dip in the conversation that signals a storm on the horizon, a great change in the air—

Or Jenny London.

Who is not, in fact, up on the third floor.

She’s walking through the office, cheeks pink but there is utter confidence in her expression.