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)
He’s in his late forties and looks like a retired rock star.
“What do you need, Mr. Winthrope?” he asks with a hint of his faded Russian accent.
I wave the letter in the air. “I need you to make sure these get hand-delivered to the deans of the schools Vanessa specified. Have it set up so they can’t ignore them. You still have the list?”
“Absolutely. Anything else?”
“No.”
He grabs it without another word and exits my office. I wish all my people were this efficient and immune to pulling my tail.
My phone buzzes with a text from Keenan, though, telling me I might as well wish for a review fairy to come down and shower me with happy write-ups.
Keenan: So, more bad news. Try not to kill me. You know the travel blogger you wanted to check out the Chicago property—the BIG one with Amex travel? He just turned us down.
Fuck.
Did he say why? I send back.
Keenan: Too many complaints. The stench won’t wash off, boss. This guy had multiple offers for the same weekend you proposed and felt like other places were safer bets. He told me he won’t go places he hates if he wants to keep his sanity.
Brownie points for giving us the finger nicely? he adds.
I glare at the screen.
How can he hate Winthrope? He’s never done a single write-up, I send.
Keenan: Yes. I checked the records. He’s never stayed with us before.
Dammit straight to hell.
Stench is right.
My worst fears are coming true.
This growing shitpile of rotten reviews is souring people’s opinions before they even stay with us. They don’t want to take the gamble.
The fact that he turned down a premier property in Chicago—the last big project Gramps personally oversaw with a Brandt architectural design—guts me.
Tell him he’s welcome anytime if he changes his mind. We’ll cover everything, airfare included.
Hell, I’ll fly in and be his personal tour guide if I have to, even if it’ll be a lot less fun than stooping that low with Miss Renee.
I have to turn this ship around before it goes tits up.
Keenan: I’ll let you know what he says.
Sighing, I slam my phone down on my desk and start Googling Winthrope Resorts with a sneer that hurts my face.
Of course, the first thing that pops up aren’t those dick-teasing videos Piper posted of her stay in Lanai.
That would be bad for me in ways that have nothing to do with horrid publicity.
It’s the usual dumpster fire of bad reviews all over Google and top travel sites.
There’s no escaping the carnage.
I don’t make it ten minutes before my blood is boiling.
Snarling, I pick up the phone and punch my marketing director’s contact.
“This is Robert.”
“Rob, I want your team churning out fresh content on the Chicago resort. All your best copywriters.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
“May I ask why?” His voice shrinks.
“We’re not taking this goddamned smear campaign lying down,” I snarl. “No one will ever market Winthrope resorts better than we do.”
“Oh, right. And you said Chicago? There’s an issue there now?” I think I can hear him wincing. “Sorry, sir. I don’t know how it keeps happening.”
“Not your responsibility. The latest one-star tirade is new, and I want it gone before it goes viral.”
“We’re on it, sir. I’ll let you know how much content we’re able to drop before I leave for the day,” he tells me.
“I appreciate it.” I cut the call.
I need to figure out what the hell is going on so I can be proactive.
Anything beats waiting around for some lunatic to lob another drive-by one-star bomb and only reacting after the fact.
I shove my chair out, stand, and walk to my sideboard.
I don’t drink at work often, but today I need something stiffer than caffeine and stress.
I also wonder if I’m overthinking this latest PR kick to the balls.
Is it really shitty review number one hundred getting under my skin or her?
Miss Renee’s presence in this building haunts me like a bloodhound that knows there’s a juicy steak on the other side of its door.
I don’t have time for office affairs.
I don’t do drama.
I have no appetite to get mixed up with some striking blond bombshell who’s already seen me naked.
How much can a man lie to himself? I wonder bitterly.
Fuck this.
The one day we spent together had me working like a dog to undo my mistakes. I was never meant to taste her, to have her little whimper branded into my grey matter.
I look down and swear again.
Apparently, the brutal hard-on I’m sporting doesn’t care for my excuses.
“Focus, you sex-starved baboon,” I mutter to myself, fishing out a bottle and a couple glasses.
I wonder if Gramps ever needed liquid courage when he was my age.
Doubtful. The man was already married and had my father, so he wasn’t lacking in the sex department.
I pour myself two fingers of brandy and hope the fire exploding in my belly helps thaw my blue balls.