The desire to get shitfaced drunk and dance naked in my living room to songs from the nineties is strong right now. So strong, in fact, I have to make a mental list of pros and cons to keep from saying screw it and actually doing it.
But alas, the cons side is much longer, and the current scowl on my sister’s face from across the bar is borderline murderous. Her perfectly arched brows are raised so high they nearly touch her hairline. And with the terrifying way her iconic plump lips are stretched into a tight line, I add another bullet point to my imaginary list.
They say twins can almost read each other’s minds, but I don’t think the gift is exclusive to womb buddies. My sister has always had this sort of radar when it comes to my bullshit, and the majority of the time she’s able to stop my shenanigans before I even get the chance to commit to them.
So now, with her reading the internal struggle on my face, I already know I won’t be vibing on my new washable rug while sipping wine and swaying to Waterfalls by TLC.
I sigh, both at my own resignation and my sister’s triumphant smirk, before glancing back down at my clipboard–the reason I’m overwhelmed in the first place.
Being the manager of a ritzy hotel on a main street is one thing that already comes with an array of never-ending duties. But add the fact that it’s Saint Patrick’s Day, and the city’s parade marches right in front of the hotel, then, well, you have yourself a place with no vacancies and not an empty seat in the in-house pub.
The number of needy guests this year seems to be at an all-time high, while the amount of sudden renovation projects required is astronomical. Not only that, but the handymen in the area are either off, charging double, or booked up.
Go figure my parents’ pride and joy would choose the busiest time of year to start giving me gray ends at the prime age of twenty-five.
It sounds like I’m complaining, and while yeah, I partially am, I do love this place and all the stress that comes with it. Even though it means I don’t get home until after my weekly shows have aired and my cat has curled up in my spot, forcing me to maneuver around her. I mean, what kind of cat-mom would I be to disturb her when she’s gotten comfortable? I’m the late one, after all.
With another pass over my list, I finally decide what to tackle first. I’ve become relatively handy with the old plumbing and figure with all the local festivities happening tonight, no one should be without a working faucet or stuck with a clunky-sounding toilet.
Glancing up to tell my sister I’ll see her later, the large flat screen on the wall behind her catches my eye. Like ninety percent of the time, a sports channel plays across the screen. It’s a recap of yesterday’s rugby game with two USA teams, and one player is currently being showcased for his incredible performance.
Number twenty-four. Adrian Stokes.
My heart leaps into my throat when his hazel eyes and a thick forest of black hair appear on the TV. To the rest of the world, he’s exactly what they describe. Six-three, two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle, always contributing to seventy percent of the team’s points.
But I know the man off the field. The man who tempts my heart with going into cardiac arrest. The one I’ve secretly wanted since the first butterfly took flight.
I sound like a total creep, but we actually grew up together. Our parents were longtime friends and when Adrian and I were around five, they all decided to renovate and open a relatively small historic hotel downtown.
As one can imagine, we spent countless hours together running down the halls before it officially became The Four Leaf. We played hide and seek in the areas that weren’t off-limits or under construction. Did our homework in the massive kitchen, which was the only place with decent light. Got in trouble when we had sword fights with paint sticks, and always seemed to be sent to Boston Common Park to play until the sun finally set.
My sister, Adrian, and I grew up within these walls. Learned how to cook, fix a leaky pipe, and clean those small vents in the bathroom. My sister, Willow, figured out how to drive, thanks to the expansive parking lot. And Adrian taught himself how to play piano from the grand piano in the ballroom by just watching videos on YouTube.
Somewhere between all that, and a crap ton of other memories embedded around this place, I fell for him. I mean, how could I not? He was everywhere, in everything.
Whether he was helping me with math, or we were watching the newest release on Netflix, he tattooed himself into all of my best and worst moments, all the while stealing more of my heart. It was a crush that gripped me by the throat and didn’t let go.
Until it did.
Kind of.
Naturally, I was always too scared to ruin my friendship with him, and after a small incident that gave me a very ‘friend-like’ nickname, I’ve had to learn to keep my feelings in check. But no matter what I tell myself about our completely platonic friendship, my body doesn’t agree. The visceral response when I see him is slightly embarrassing, and don’t get me started on the aftermath left in my panties.
But who can blame me? The man is one of those guys they made in stone back in Greece to depict the Gods, while also having the personality of your favorite German Shepherd. I know, comparing him to both a God and a dog, but it fits. The guy is loyal, kind, smart, strong, and sexy as hell, while also slightly terrifying.
“Are you going to ogle Adrian all night, or actually start on that list?” My sister pops the top off a green bottle and hands it to an eagerly waiting patron. Her blonde ponytail whips back and forth as she moves gracefully behind the bar, performing some type of choreography only she and her barbacks know the footwork to.
I roll my eyes and tap my pen on the metal piece of my clipboard. “I was just thinking how convenient it would be if he were here.”
It’s not a complete lie. Adrian did more work than my sister and I combined when we were growing up here. Probably the very reason he sold his shares to us as soon as he could, then split.
My sister guffaws as she cashes out a customer. “I’m sure. I bet it’d be awfully convenient if he could fix the leak between your legs too, huh?”
A vicious blush burns across my cheeks as I gape at her and a few of the chuckling guests. Asshole. She’s always been that way. Straightforward and unfiltered. Even when we were kids, she loved making things awkward for me and Adrian any chance she could.
I open and close my mouth twice before narrowing my eyes. “I’ll be on the top floor, working in the far wing. Call if you need something.”
Willow chuckles, jerking her head to the man seated at the end of the bar. “See how she didn’t deny my claims, Tommy?”
One of our long-time guests pats his round belly and grins my way. “I did, and now you got the poor girl running to the top floor.”
“Oh, yeah, because the third floor is so high up there. We’ll still be able to hear her journal entries from here. Dear diary, today Adrian did–”
“You are such a cunt, Will,” I hiss through my teeth, twirling on my heels, my hands gripping the clipboard so tight it squeaks under the pressure.
“I have one, and I like to lick them, but I’m not one, Sam. Have fun upstairs!” my sister calls after me, and I have to really fight the urge not to flip her off.
Her need for a reaction out of me has been an ongoing battle since fifth grade when I swore on a pinky promise I didn’t like-like Adrian. She knows I lied on it and refuses to let me live it down.
Winding through the tight crowd, I exit the bar and enter the lobby. From the looks of it, you’d think it wasn’t attached to one of the most popular pubs on the block. It’s empty of anyone except the receptionist and bellboy huddled across the wide counter.
When my parents renovated, they kept a lot of the detail and original lighting, but some things had to be redone to help modernize the place a bit. The check-in counter and doors have the original dark oak, while the gold metal accents have been restored to their previous shine. But things like the horrendous wallpaper and dingy carpets were replaced.
Overall, I really like how it somehow mixes both worlds. Cozy yet elegant. Historic yet contemporary.
I wave to the pair as I pass by and walk to the elevator on the left, then head to the top floor. Because the parade is on the east side of the building, the west is completely vacant. The rooms are booked with check-ins starting in a few hours, but for now, it will be a guest interruption-free zone while I work.
The long hall is similar to the lobby, sporting the rejuvenated original hardware, elaborate crown molding, and vintage sconces and chandeliers, but has also been given a modern feel as well. The walls are snowy gray, the doors dark oak, and the carpets a deep red.
I check over my list as I walk to the nearest maintenance closet. There’s one on each floor, so we don’t have to haul stuff up constantly. Deciding on running through the smaller jobs first, I grab my electrical bag and get started.
An hour later, I’ve managed to fix three loose light fixtures, two beeping smoke detectors, one crooked keyless entry, and four janky toilet flushers. I mean, I’m feeling insanely proud of myself, if I’m honest. Saved about a thousand bucks already, considering what the locals are charging right now, and barely broke a sweat.
See, I don’t need Adrian, I internally snap at my sister as I move down to the next room on my list, 3T. My eyes flash to my list and I stop mid-step.
Dammit. Instant karma has to be the worst possible thing. Or perhaps the wicked bad energy I know my sister is pushing through the floors. Either way, I’m now pouting because this is the room with the bad sink.
The sink that haunts my freaking nightmares. It has a mysterious leak no one can seem to find, and even with replacing the plumbing underneath twice, it still drips.
With a heavy sigh, I unlock the door, prop it open, and haul my large bag inside. Unlike the typical hotels, our rooms open to a small living area with two chairs around a fireplace. It’s an electric built-in, but it gives the illusion of a vintage vibe. Behind the seating is the king-sized bed, and on the right is the door to the bathroom. It’s an odd setup, considering if the door is open, you have a direct view of the stand-in shower, but it hasn’t seemed to pose a problem thus far.
I drop my heavy tool bag on the floor outside of the bathroom and prop the door open. Inside, the perpetrating sink rests inside a beautifully refinished wooden cabinet with iron claw feet. Kneeling, I swing the doors open and expose the plumbing. Naturally, the little bowl I placed beneath last week is a quarter of the way full, and a droplet is growing heavy at the bottom of the pipe.
After turning off the pipe, I make quick work of emptying the bowl, cleaning the bottom, and throwing on gloves. My plan is to take out all the parts, put water in each one, and hope that I see something. If not, I’ll seal it with new plumber’s tape and will have to figure something out after the holiday rush.
I grab my trusty, adjustable pliers and get to work on the pipe. Normally, the pipes are a pain in the ass to loosen, but I guess today I’m due an extra workout, because no amount of turning is doing anything to budge it.
Deciding to readjust, I get on my knees and use both hands now, yanking with small bursts of energy. Now, having to run up and down this hotel, I’d say I’m a pretty in-shape person, but the way my ass is jiggling in my slacks makes me grateful there are no guests currently around who might see the show.
Again, I yank, this time with a frustrated growl, hoping it will give me some type of extra testosterone. But instead, my grip slips from the pliers, and I fall back awkwardly, hitting a very hard… person.
Before I even look up, I feel the burn lighting up my entire face, but when I see familiar hazel eyes and black tousled hair, I beg for the floor to collapse altogether.
“Hey, Adrian,” I breathe.
“Hey, Sammy.”
