My Wanderlust Bites the Dust

by Eliza Watson

  Bingo. I had to add a mental health bag to my packing list to make my guest room a Zen Zone. Balance. I now knew where to find all the needed products in Prague. I just had to find the time to shop for them, especially the luxurious open-toe spa slippers. My feet were killing me from walking and running miles on uneven cobblestone streets and sidewalks. I had no clue how American shoe sizes compared to European ones. I pulled the slippers from the bag and studied the size forty pair. They looked big. If I was dropping money on spa slippers, they’d better fit. I sat down on the comfy blue velvet chair to quickly try one on. I slid a stockinged foot into a slipper and curled my toes into the cushiony softness. I tried on the other slipper. I slowly relaxed back into the chair, easing out a relaxed moan…

  My eyes shot open. It took a moment to realize I was in Ms. Callan’s suite. Panic raced through me. Omigod. I’d dozed off! My gaze darted to the antique clock on the wall. I’d left the office forty-five minutes ago!

  Noise came from the master bedroom.

  Someone was in the suite.

  Or, something.

  Hopefully, this suite was also haunted.

  I slouched down in the chair facing opposite the bedroom. If the VIP had checked in, either she hadn’t seen me, or she was calling security from the other room. My breathing quickened. I had to get out of here!

  I quietly stood and tiptoed toward the door, slippers slapping against my feet. My gaze darted to my shoes on the carpet by the chair. I turned around to grab them when Mindy walked out of the bedroom. We both let out a startled squeal.

  “Omigod, you scared the hell out of me,” Mindy said, hand to her chest.

  I took a deep, calming breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “I tried calling you to see if the Evans and Walker amenity was delivered, but you didn’t answer.”

  I’d been so out I hadn’t heard my phone ringing? Had Gretchen texted me, wondering where I was?

  “Ah, sorry. This room seems to be a dead zone.”

  Mindy paled, as if this room might also be haunted.

  I glanced down at the slippers on my feet. “You’re probably wondering why I’m wearing these.” Mindy was a consummate professional. I was surprised she wasn’t flippin’ out on me. Would she tell Blair?

  Mindy’s forehead crinkled. “Yeah, kind of.”

  “My feet were killing from running around on cobblestone for hours. I wanted to buy a pair of these slippers but needed to know the size first.” Unsure if she realized I’d been snoozing in the chair, I didn’t mention it. “I’m sorry.” I quickly exchanged the slippers for my shoes, my feet protesting against the firm rubber soles.

  She nodded in understanding, her blue eyes dimming. “I was once on a horrible program in Edinburgh, making VIP amenity deliveries every night while the rest of the staff went out for fancy dinners. There was a four-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch in a suite from the previous night’s delivery. I slammed a fifty-dollar glass.”

  My eyes widened with shock, unable to picture Mindy doing such a thing. It would be like Rachel doing it.

  “It wasn’t as if the guy had paid for it. I considered it combat pay and for having to eat room service hamburgers every night.”

  “I’m not judging—believe me. I’m just…surprised.”

  “And I had another glass in the next suite,” she said matter of factly.

  “Your secret is safe with me.”

  She gave me a conspiratorial smile as she walked out the door. “So is yours.”

  It felt good that Mindy had trusted me with her secret. Most of mine were mishaps I was too embarrassed to share. Had Rachel ever been so stressed out she’d slammed a VIP’s two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine or spritzed herself with their expensive perfume? Or how about Gretchen? Maybe they weren’t as straitlaced and professional as they appeared. And everyone slipped up once in a while.

  I would kill to know Rachel’s and Gretchen’s secrets.

  * * *

  When I returned to the office, a note from Gretchen sat on my desk, with the minibar attendant’s contact number. Maybe she’d been gone and hadn’t noticed my absence. The office was empty except for Rita and Courtney, who were now both slamming energy drinks and cross-checking reports.

  “We might be rooming together,” Courtney told Rita. “Here’s another one without a room.” She lowered her voice. “You’d think Blair would appreciate us cleaning up this mess. My usual planner is awesome. No way am I working for this bitch again. I got stuck on this meeting because I was stupid enough to say yes after two others refused. I wanted to be a team player.”

  “This is a rough one, luv.” Rita couldn’t outright agree when Blair controlled her future job prospects.

  “The only reason she keeps her job is because she’s sleeping with a vice president, Mr. Gauthier. She must be a dynamo in bed. They try to never be seen together, since they’re both married, which makes it even more obvious.”

  Mr. Gauthier and Blair?

  Was that why she’d eyed the hanky with interest? She knew his old one had blue trim and she’d wondered how I’d known that? What if their pillow talk had included my sucky French and Mr. Gauthier’s hanky being used to wipe up dog pee? If his English was so poor, how did they communicate? Maybe the fact that they couldn’t was how he tolerated Blair.

  I broke out in a sweat.

  If Mr. Gauthier had said anything to Blair, she’d have taken me off VIPs. Right? Yet, who else was available to solve his cricket issue and make his absinthe run? That was likely why I kept getting pulled from food and beverage. She was more concerned about her boyfriend’s needs. And since she was short staffed, incompetent staff might be better than none.

  I had to avoid Mr. Gauthier.

  * * *

  I spent the rest of the afternoon stalking the minibar guy, making sure he replaced all the competitor products with Evans and Walker ones. It took forever since pretty much anything in a minibar could be considered a dessert.

  Blair’s client had just arrived and wanted to review all the products with Gretchen, who had no choice but to have me work a VIP dinner by myself. My event order might as well have been written in Czech. Trying to decipher all my notes from the pre-con was nearly impossible. The comments Gretchen had emphasized as “critical” I’d highlighted in green. The entire page was green. I blew out a calming breath. After Gretchen’s snide remark asking if I’d worked any meal functions since Powerscourt in Ireland, this dinner had to go perfectly.

  The banquet server—Armando from Italy—watched me open chafing dishes and check items against the menu. Salmon, chicken, potatoes…

  “Where’s the soup of the day?” I asked.

  He gestured to a separate table with a silver soup urn and bowls. No label.

  “Items need to be labeled with allergies and dietary restrictions. Please make sure you have a vegetarian meal.” Mr. Gauthier was vegetarian. “Without garlic.” He was allergic. I studied my notes. “And no pepper.”

  I recalled Declan’s story about getting fired over a CEO’s pineapple allergy. Despite Declan having advised the restaurant about it, some rogue bartender was making pineapple blender drinks and the fruit became airborne, resulting in an emergency room run.

  Armando nodded, strolling off in search of labels and the special meal that I should probably taste test before serving to the VIP. Armando wasn’t exactly up to snuff for such a prestigious hotel.

  I looked up garlic, pepper, and vegetarian on my translation app, preparing for my conversation with Mr. Gauthier. Fifteen minutes before start time, no attendees and no Armando. What if VIPs showed up and wanted to know what items contained gluten or nuts? What if Gretchen stopped by to double-check everything?

  Even worse, Mr. Gauthier was walking into the room.

  So much for avoiding the man. He’d definitely have a special request. Like he was also allergic to cork and required a twist-off top on the wine.

  We exchanged bonsoirs. I confirmed his special meal request befo
re I forgot how to pronounce pepper, poivre. He gave me a pleased smile. He gestured toward the soup urn, rattling off something in French. Soup of the day? Crap. I should have asked Armando.

  I lifted the top from the silver urn to identify it. A whoosh of steam rose up and scalded my pinky. I dropped the cover on the urn, letting out a squeal of pain. I stuck my finger in a punch bowl of ice, the burning sensation subsiding slightly.

  “Mon dieu.” The man eyed my pinky, or possibly the ice bucket, with concern. It was the ice for beverages.

  I snapped my hand out of the bowl. I assured him I was fine—unless, of course, he mentioned this incident to Blair.

  I diverted the conversation to wine, offering him a glass from a selection of bottles displayed on a table. He requested a red. I was proud that I’d have understood him even if he hadn’t pointed to the bottle. He tasted the wine and smiled with approval. We stood smiling at each other. I was starting to sweat. Maybe I could entertain him by playing a tune on the wineglasses like the musician the night before.

  Where the hell was Armando?

  Another man walked in and requested the same wine. Thankfully, they started chatting in what I believed was German.

  Nervous about being able to fulfill VIPs’ demands, and upset that I’d burned my finger because Armando was MIA, I texted Nigel, inquiring about the server’s status. Five minutes later, Oscar from Sweden arrived with the food labels and informed me the soup was vegetable. He was the nice man who’d offered me an additional table linen when I’d been freezing in the cooler.

  I requested fresh ice.

  He sniffed the air. “That scent is nice.”

  “I think it’s the white wine sauce on the salmon.”

  His brow wrinkled. “Ah, no, the scent on you.”

  I’d run out of perfume before my trip, so he was referring to the lavender air freshener. I needed to sneak out and buy some so I could douse myself in the calming scent every morning.

  I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You’re missing the badge.” Oscar pointed at my empty lanyard clip.

  Where was my name badge?

  The last time I’d noticed it was while I was souvenir shopping. I’d come back and gone to my room, and then I’d placed all the Zen products in the VIP suite, and then… Omigod. Had it come off in the suite? I’d been authorized to access the room, yet if Ms. Callan turned my badge in, Ted the security guy would flip out. I’d get written up. I could also have lost it in one of the twenty attendees’ rooms when I was shadowing the minibar attendant.

  Oscar stayed until Armando finally returned with a crappy attitude, reeking of cigarettes. He’d been on a smoke break? I didn’t trust this guy not to disappear again, or Gretchen not to pop in and check up on me, but my finger was throbbing. I had to make a gift shop run for burn ointment. A hot pack for my shoulder would also be nice. Thankfully, there was no new client product, so leaving the room unattended for a few minutes before dinner was served wasn’t a huge deal.

  Before heading to the gift shop, I popped by the office to look for my missing badge. Luckily, nobody was there, and luckily, I had a key. I dropped down on my hands and knees and searched under my desk.

  “Did you lose something?” Ted asked, walking in.

  I popped up, snatching a folder off the desk, slapping it to my chest, covering the empty lanyard clip.

  “An earring. It’s not there.”

  Ted eyed the pair of earrings dangling from my ears.

  “I lost it yesterday. Gotta get back to the dinner. Just needed to grab this folder.”

  I flew out of the office, heart thumping against my chest. I peeked inside the folder to find revised event orders. Great. I’d have to return them before Gretchen realized they were missing.

  I went to the gift shop and dropped an insane amount of money on first-aid cream.

  At least the shamrock and Póg Mo Thóin—Kiss My Ass—undies I’d paid too much for in Dublin were souvenirs and empowering. I packed them every meeting.

  I slathered on the cream, but my finger still hurt. I had to start traveling with first-aid items. It was hit or miss if I’d find trusted brands in a foreign country.

  I walked across the lobby toward the elevators. A dog let out a ferocious bark, startling me. Fritzie and Madam Petrov had just entered the hotel. The dog let out another bark, and people peered at me with curiosity and concern.

  I gave Fritzie a sympathetic look. “You know, you’re not the only one traumatized by what happened.”

  He growled.

  So much for bonding.

  The woman’s gaze sharpened, and she spoke a few harsh words, likely Russian, based on her last name. I didn’t need to type it into my translator app to know she wasn’t wishing me a good night. I waited in the lobby, not wanting to ride the elevator up with them, massaging the stress-induced throbbing in my shoulder. The barking stopped. I peeked over to see if they’d left. Mr. Gauthier stood there petting Fritzie, who was licking his hand. I wanted to yell out, I have a dog! Animals love me! Madam Petrov and Fritzie got in an elevator, and the VIP went outside for a smoke. I headed toward the elevator, going to my room to search for my badge.

  Funny, I considered Mom a mother hen when she insisted on checking up on me, yet she was now the first person I called for advice on my burn, and I could really use a comforting voice.

  “Honey,” Mom said. “Raw honey if you can find it.”

  “I can probably get it from the banquet department.”

  “My mom used honey for everything. She’d put some in warm milk to help us sleep at night and used it to lower her cholesterol. Though she never put it in her tea. She thought it an odd American custom.”

  Rachel and I used to drink tea and hot chocolate out of our favorite cups in Grandma’s teacup collection. A collection I’d learned, from my Irish rellie Sadie Collentine, had been from our great-grandma Flannery’s family porcelain factory in County Wicklow, Ireland. Thanks to my aunt Teri’s hoarding issue, Teri had kept Grandma’s entire collection after she died, boxing it up and sticking it in the basement rather than donating it to a thrift shop. Rachel and I had gone through the collection after Christmas, each of us selecting a half dozen cups.

  Mom confirmed she and Dad had gone to the Taco Cantina, their favorite Mexican restaurant, for Valentine’s Day. Unlike Rachel, Mom didn’t ask how my holiday had gone with Declan, because she hadn’t known about it. She thought Declan and I were just friends, and I wanted to keep it that way for a bit longer. She knew just enough about my relationship with Andy to be concerned and question my ability to select my own match.

  I whisked into my room and scanned the floor for my badge.

  “I was talking to Rachel, and she mentioned a distant relative contacted you,” Mom said.

  I hadn’t planned on mentioning the visit to Mom until afterward, not wanting her to freak out like everyone else seemed to be over me meeting a stranger in Prague.

  “He’s not related to us. He’s a Daly, related to Grandma’s first husband, John Michael. But he has some family history and is nice enough to hop over to Prague while he’s in Vienna.”

  Even though she’d taken the news about Grandma’s first marriage surprisingly well, Mom wasn’t joining Rachel and me on our visit to Grandma’s niece after St. Paddy’s Day.

  I checked the desktop and dresser for my badge.

  “Keep me posted. Take your pepper spray and be careful.”

  Strange, she was much calmer about my visit with George than Rachel or Declan had been. My relationship with Mom was going better than when I’d moved in with my parents eight months ago. She wasn’t constantly inquiring about the status of my debt and hadn’t sent me a job application since Cheesey Eddie’s three months ago. It helped that I’d been on the road and in Rachel’s office planning a Flanagan’s beer meeting currently going on in Dublin. An executive’s assistant had gone on-site for it.

  Oh, how I wished I were working that one instead.

&nb
sp; Mom and I said good-bye while I was on my knees looking under the bed. I was about to give up and face the fact that my badge was in the VIP’s suite or an attendee’s room when I grabbed my coat off the back of the chair to hang it up and my badge fell to the floor. My shoulders dropped with relief. The rough edges of the plastic holder had likely stuck to the inside of my wool coat.

  I snatched up the badge and clipped it to the lanyard.

  I wondered if they sold superglue in the gift shop, since I couldn’t allow something as simple as a name badge to make me come unglued this meeting.

  Chapter Ten

  After the dinner, I swung by the office. Blair was the only one there. I said a quick good night and replaced Gretchen’s folder with revised event orders. Hopefully, she hadn’t been searching for them. Trudging into my room at ten o’clock, I wanted to collapse onto the bed, but I had to FaceTime with Declan. It would be the only personal thing I’d done all day except for spending ten minutes buying souvenirs and burn ointment—which was work related. Putting on lipstick might look like I was trying too hard, so I brushed my hair and wiped the mascara from under my eyes. I entertained the thought of slipping on my red bra, but I didn’t want our first sex to be FaceTime sex and set the tone for our intimate relationship.

  Declan answered the call. A tall naked guy stood behind him—a statue lit up in the middle of a fountain. Declan wore a dark wool coat and black slacks. He was still on duty.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “The Fountain of Neptune. Wish you were here.”