Blake thrives on perfection, but a midnight crisis in the lounge leaves Blake disheveled, ash-stained, and way too close to a guest who plays by a different set of rules.
3:40 am
Ash hit Blake first.
Not heat. A dry, bitter grit stung her nostrils as she pulled the lounge doors open. It floated in delicate spirals, catching the low light like snowfall turned gray. The fire in the hearth was an oxygen-starved scarlet compared to its usual gold, and the blinking crimson light on the alarm felt like a ticking bomb.
Blake crossed the room in six strides.
“The damper,” Ms. Sinclair said.
Blake agreed. She tried to recall the checklist of fire codes and protocols. “Fan that alarm, please, would you?” She dropped to her knees on the stone hearth, the heat of the dying fire giving way to the frigid air that had already clawed its way down the chimney shoot.
“Fan it.” Ms. Sinclair repeated, amused.
Blake shot her a glare before she could stop herself, catching the edge of a smile that said—yes, ma’am.
A clack of heels moved behind her, followed by the clap of a menu snapping up and down, up and down.
Blake unlatched the iron screen, hissing at the heated sting. The smoke wasn’t thick yet, but it was wrong. Moving downward instead of up.
The damper was fully closed. Its iron lever was a stubborn, frozen weight. Blake shoved it, her shoulder groaning in protest. Her blazer caught a spray of soot. Lovely. She shoved it again. Again.
“You’re very good at the theater of it,” Ms. Sinclair murmured between menu claps. “Does grunting help?”
Blake bit down a grunt, trying a two-handed heave. “It’s stuck.”
Blake could hear Ms. Sinclair’s grin. “I see that,” she mused.
Blake stood, trying to stomp the lever down. Nothing. “There’s no way the wind moved this thing.” She dropped to her knees again, swiping the poker from its stand. “The damper must have broken.”
Ms. Sinclair’s gaze lingered all over every move she made, but Blake refused to look. “Your chimney sweep needs to be fired.”
Blake shoved the poker up the shaft, prodding at the stubborn damper. The hearth was warm against her cheek. The smell of old fires pressed into her skin as the clank, clank, clank, rattled up the chimney shoot.
Blake’s wrist twinged where the sapphire cufflink pressed too tight against bone.
The menu continued to clap behind her. Thirty-two rooms. Full of sleeping guests. About to be blasted awake by a fire alarm for a fire that was almost dead anyway. Blake groaned, arm aching as she tried one last thrust.
Clang. The iron damper twisted. The smoke gave a resentful huff before being sucked upward. The fire roared back to life, bright and clean, just as Blake tugged her arm free.
“Careful,” Ms. Sinclair said.
Blake stayed on her knees, forehead resting on the stone as she caught her breath. Then she remembered herself. She wiped a hand back through her hair as she stood.
“Well done,” Ms. Sinclair said. “May I stop fanning?”
Blake chuckled, “Thank you. And, yes, thank you for the help.”
Blake stepped from the hearth as Ms. Sinclair hummed and set the broken and bent menu on a table nearby. Ms. Sinclair turned back, startled as her gaze flickered over Blake. A crooked smile spread across her lips. “Oh my,” she chuckled.
“What?” Even as Blake asked, she already saw. Her Blazer was torn at the elbow and painted in ash. A faint gray against the navy wool.
Ms. Sinclair’s gaze dropped to the torn fabric. Then lifted.
Blake’s hands were filthy, and she could only imagine what was all over her face. “Ah,” Blake murmured, tugging out her pocket square.
Ms. Sinclair hid her amusement behind her knuckles.
Blake swept her square over her face and wiped her hands clean. Head down as she tried to right herself. The fine dust settled along the edge of the expensive and irreplaceable rug beneath her shoes, as Ms. Sinclair took a single step forward.
“I can buy you dinner tomorrow,” Blake turned again, using the poker to push the forward log back into alignment.
“Well, after your treatment of that chimney, I think I should buy you dinner.”
Blake tried to ignore the heat that rose in her ears. “I meant comp it. As a thank you.”
“So, did I.” Ms. Sinclair’s eyes twinkled against the dark light of the snoozing lounge. The wind battered the building, a low, sustained roar against glass and beam.
Blake’s brain tore in two directions. Only one of which was at all appropriate.
Ms. Sinclair breathed out a soft chuckle as she shifted her weight from both feet to one, cocking her hip like a loaded weapon. “The disheveled look is working for you, Blake. How’s it feel?”
Outside, the storm answered with another long, grinding shove against the chimney stack.
The ash in Blake’s blazer remained. Stubborn and unyielding. She settled on just taking the whole thing off. “Not something I’m accustomed to.”
“You don’t say?” Ms. Sinclair’s hand floated between them, reaching. She paused, holding Blake’s gaze for a breath, before she brushed a bit of ash from a fallen ebony wave on Blake’s temple. Blake tried not to move. “I like it, I think.” Ms. Sinclair’s voice dipped into a secret.
The room tilted with the surge of oxygen coursing into Blake’s head. Her heart was a rabbit’s foot thumping against dry earth in her ears. This wasn’t right.
Blake stepped back before she even meant to, dropping the poker into its stand. She swept the bent menu from the table. “I’ll have to hide this from my chef. She’ll lose her mind,” Blake pivoted, folding the menu down the middle, corners aligned.
Ms. Sinclair watched—silent. She pulled her hand back, twirling her finger and thumb around her dangling earring exactly once. “Yes, chefs have a stubborn way about them, don’t they?”
“Artists usually do.”
Ms. Sinclair hummed.
Something in the air shifted. The temperature regulating once more, perhaps. Blake pulled the iron screen shut on the fire. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Sinclair?” Blake asked, hand brushing down her tie as she balanced her blazer over her forearm.
“A nice brandy would be lovely after all that fanning.”
Blake chuckled, “The honor bar is all set up in the library.”
“Mm, yes. I saw.” Ms. Sinclair crossed her arms loosely across her chest. “Care to join me for a nightcap?”
“Oh, I—I’m on the clock.”
“Yes, I’d hate for someone to report you to the owner.”
“I need to make rounds.”
Ms. Sinclair bobbed her head. Slow. Quiet. “I see.”
Blake shifted, menu fold fraying beneath her nail. “Well, goodnight, Ms. Sinclair. Thank you again for your help,” Blake smiled, already heading for the back doors. “I’ll come find you for that dinner comp tomorrow,” she added, pushing out a practiced grin.
Ms. Sinclair’s mouth pulled into a tight line. She hummed. Her heels soon clicked along the floor toward the library doors as Blake slipped into the back hall.
Crisis averted. No fire alarm. No mess.
Aside from herself.
She frowned at the ash beneath her nails.
7:15 am
The next morning, after trying to fit eight hours of sleep into three, Blake tried to get the last of the ash out in the shower. Two showers, actually. At least a dozen hand washings. The ash was too stubborn to leave her or her—nice, long fingers—alone.
The lobby buzzed with early birds. Conversations of the cozy fireplace against the magnificent views, the fun of a boiling balcony jacuzzi, and a mention of a honeymoon night that sounded like it hadn’t gone exactly as planned, but led to some exciting new discoveries.
People liked to forget staff had ears. The stories Blake had overheard through the years could make a dominatrix blush. Most were just oozing with prime secondhand embarrassment.
“Uh oh. Not another manual update,” Martin greeted, setting down a box of receipt paper rolls. She could already hear him revving up for a bit of sass.
Blake glanced at him. He nodded at the Standard Operating Procedure manual on the counter. “Oh,” she pulled the SOP closer, shutting it as she went. “No, no. Just…reviewing a few things. No mandatory staff courses on the horizon. Don’t worry.” She dropped a pen into her pocket.
“After this weekend, I think you owe us a homework pass on the next training course,” he chuckled. But he wasn’t joking.
Blake wasn’t going to respond. After working together for seven years, she knew he needed his little remarks now and then.
He popped the top from the little printer and dropped a fresh roll in. It clicked shut and immediately printed the night audit. Blake tucked her copy of the SOP under her arm as he read over the receipt.
“Couldn’t sleep last night?” he asked as she turned.
“Pardon?” Blake glanced back.
He held up the night audit. A long report printed on receipt paper that almost touched the ground with a total summary of the day prior. Everything from sales, to doors, to—badge swipes into every room. Like a guest swiping into the Library for a late-night drink at the Honor Bar. Or an employee swiping into the library to check on a lamp left on.
It printed automatically.
“Oh, um… yeah. I smelled smoke,” she shrugged. “We need to get the lounge damper looked at soon.”
“I’ll make a service request.” Martin slid the audit through his thumb and forefinger, scanning it.
“Wh—no. Um. I mean, I’ll get it fixed. I don’t want Summit Line breathing down my neck over it. They’re already pushing me to get the south wing renovations started. I’m about twenty-eight days away from a firm slap on the wrist for Failure to Maintain.”
He rolled his eyes, “Right. I saw that memo. A PIP? Really?”
Property Improvement Plan. A fancy way to say, make The Pines look how we want it, or lose our branding. That was the last thing she needed. But ever since the new Summit Line Leadership team had come into seat a year ago, they’d been shoving changes into The Pines’ left and right. The asshole assigned to her resort, Brian, made her want to drop-kick something.
“I’m going to have to call Brian and see what’s going on,” Blake replied.
“While you’re at it, tell him he can kiss my cookie,” he chuckled at himself. A huffy laugh through his nose, lips pinched in a self-appreciating smirk.
She couldn’t help but grin, “I don’t know what that means.”
“Brian knows,” he quipped.
“Okay, well, I’m not telling him that.”
“Yeah, but you want to.”
“I want to tell him to kiss something,” she muttered.
“Coward,” he winked, gathering up the audit and the box. He flipped his hair over his shoulder as he turned. He didn’t have hair.
“A coward that’s buying your dinner, so…” she called after him.
He called back, “Yeah, because you owe me, King.”
Blake chuckled at the nickname. Her stomach soured, though, as she considered the PIP and her next conversation with Brian. She dropped the SOP manual back on the counter and slid it away.
“You must love buying dinners,” Ms. Sinclair cooed, appearing around the tall cedar beam beside the front desk. She was a good three inches shorter without her heels. And much quieter on the hardwood.
She didn’t have her makeup done, and her hair was a ball of golden silk on the top of her head that had slipped loose from its wrapping. Still just as striking. “Ah, good morning, Ms. Sinclair,” Blake grinned, tapping the counter—bah dum dum. Why? She hadn’t the slightest. She’d certainly never done it before.
Ms. Sinclair’s brow tilted as she watched the display, still walking.
“I—yes, I guess I do,” Blake replied. She set her hands on the counter—remembering the ash under her nails, she slipped them into her pockets instead.
Ms. Sinclair hummed, continuing on her way down the hall that led to the pools and spa. So, she must have managed to get an appointment. The glance back over her shoulder confirmed, her lips pursed in an amused victory.
Blake cleared her throat, straightening the brochures. Someone could have cancelled, too.
She offered a few smiles to guests. Most of whom were heading to the dining lounge for breakfast. All marvelling over the snowy vistas singing against the thirty-foot-tall windows, housing the stone hearth she’d spent last night grunting against.
She wondered what the fire department would have even done with all this snow. Send helicopters? Summit Line would love that in the news. Blake dipped back behind the tall black divider between the front desk and a staff room. She rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, trying to stifle a yawn.
She wasn’t a stranger to sleepless nights. A cappuccino would help, though.
She ran through her checklists as she adjusted her blazer. A spare she grabbed this morning from her office. Smoke-free and hole-free.
She could get the damper situation handled. Quietly. Oh, and she needed to text Frosty Plow and see how those roads were looking. Check in with Roxanne and see how well she handled the emotional weight of a menu change. Figure out how she could schedule staff around breaks but keep guest services running—
A vibration in her pocket cut the list short. Blake sighed on instinct.
She turned, digging through the cabinets in the staff room. She plucked out a bottle of ibuprofen as she worked the phone from her pocket.
A long, slow breath in through her nose as she looked at the screen. She closed her eyes and plastered on a smile, “Brian, good morning.”
A broken damper. A menu change. Blocked roads. A blizzard named Ms. Sinclair. And oh, good—Brian from Summit Line calling.
Everything under control? Perhaps. But you can be the first to know what happens next by subscribing. See you back at The Pines next week.
I love this series!! The sensory details really pull me in to The Pines’ world. And the simmering tension between Ms. Sinclair and Blake is 🔥!